H er heartbeat gave her away—too fast, too erratic, too telling. Fear. She was coated in it.

But where was she?

Kerr Vik scanned the dark tavern, searching for the source of the emotions he sensed…felt.

Only one being would be so immersed in fear by the appearance of the Jagers and their mercenaries. The one they hunted…a witch.

His gaze shot to the others. Marina, the Jager leader, placed one fingertip to her temple and closed her eyes. With a frown, she dropped her hand and raised her eyelids. “I know this is the place. I’ve sensed magic here before.”

She spun; the gold threads sewn through her tunic caught in the light adding an ethereal quality to her movements as she leaped in front of the tavern’s owner and placed the sharp tip of a dagger against his throat. “You say there are no witches here?” she asked.

The owner, a sturdy man with dark hair and a steady gaze, stared straight ahead. “You said yourself, there was no power coming from my tavern. Perhaps a witch was here and left. People don’t tend to stay too long.”

Kerr stepped over a bench on his way to the back of the room. The fear was growing. It wrapped around him like a noose and tugged him deeper into the room, past the tavern owner and Marina.

The Jager leader ignored him, but the man she had pinned jerked. “There is nothing in there for you.”

Kerr stopped, his hand resting on the top of an iron-bound ale barrel. He heard a gasp and felt the fear begin to pulse from inside the cask. He had found her.

 

Heather Moore held her breath. Her hands, sweaty from fear, pressed against the rough wood surrounding her. She had no idea what was happening, where she was or why she had agreed to hide inside a musty barrel. There had been something about the light in the eyes of the man she’d encountered as she stepped through the portal—joy turning to horror as the sounds of horses and men stomping outside thrust him into some kind of panicked action.

He’d urged her into the barrel, warned her to hold her tongue and her powers, then plopped the lid on top of her.

She’d sat, her knees curled to her chest, her forehead resting on her kneecaps while people stomped inside. Voices threatened the man who had hidden her, insisting they had sensed a witch inside his tavern.

Heather had pulled her knees a little closer to her chest at their tone when they said the word witch. She had no idea why they searched for one, but every fiber of the survival instinct she possessed told her it was for nothing pleasant.

The lid to her hidey hole edged to the side, letting in light and cool air. Heather held her breath, bit her lip and waited—readying herself to ignore the man’s warnings and blast whoever held that lid with as much energy as she could muster.

Except she couldn’t. As she tried to draw power from the room, she realized her resources were drained, perhaps from her journey through the portal.

She was stuck…no magic…and nowhere to hide.

 

His gaze on the tavern owner and Marina, Kerr waited. The witch inside the barrel was going nowhere. But the tavern owner…

As the thought formed in his head, the lid under his hand shifted. Whoever was inside wanted to come out.

Kerr turned his body, instinctively blocking Marina, his charge, from whatever danger waited inside the barrel and jerked off the lid.

A pair of brown eyes, wide with desperation, stared back at him.

The witch. He’d found her.

Elation flooded over him, then—like a slap—a new emotion struck. Surprise. Shock.

A witch, but not just any witch—not a nameless body he knew nothing of, and could turn over to the Jagers with little thought to her destiny.

No, damn it. This witch he knew.

Heather. How had she found him?

“Did you find her?” Marina’s dagger dug into the tavern owner’s neck; blood dribbled down his dark skin onto his tunic. The man’s gaze stayed steady, but defeat was written across his face.

Kerr plopped the lid back onto the barrel and turned. “Thievery.”

Both Marina and the tavern owner frowned. “What?” Marina asked.

“A barrelful of elfin silk. We’ve caught a thief.”

Marina pursed her lips, her gaze shooting to the tavern owner. His brows lowered in confusion for one brief second, then he smoothed his forehead and lowered his gaze to his hands. “I’m just a stopping place, a middle man. No real money in it for me, but I can offer you free drinks if you keep my secret from the government. Or at least give me a day or two to get the goods out of my place.”

Marina cursed. “Silk?” She stepped away from the man, her dagger still held in front of her. She closed her eyes and after a second she cursed again. “Nothing.” She rammed her knife into its scabbard and stared at the tavern owner. “I know a witch was here. If you want to keep your…” She gestured toward the back where Kerr stood. “…secret, next time you won’t let her escape so thoroughly.” She stepped close to the man and placed one finger over his heart. “Understand?”

The tavern owner’s face was meek, his gaze dropped, but Kerr could see his posture…stiff and unyielding…as he muttered an agreement.

Without a word to anyone, Marina strode from the room. Kerr hesitated, his hand back on the barrel, but as the remaining Jagers flowed from the room, he dropped his hand and followed. Heather would wait. She’d have to. She had no more options for leaving Gunngar than he did.

 

Kerr.

Heather’s mind raced as the lid to her barrel clunked back into place cutting off light and air—but also threat, hopefully.

The damned portal guardian had sent her to the same place he had sent the garm. Heather moved her shaking hands to her temples and pressed. So, wherever she was, there were garm who knew who she was, what she was. Based on the snippets of conversation she’d been able to decipher from her hiding place, anyone knowing she was a witch couldn’t be good.

But Kerr, the silver-haired garm she’d known in the human world…fought with at times, hadn’t turned her in. Yet.

Sudden light streamed into the barrel, and a rough hand grabbed her by the elbow. With a quick jerk, the tavern owner pulled her to a stand. “What happened? Did you spell him?” he asked.

Weak from lack of food and rampant adrenaline, Heather sagged onto the lip of the barrel and glanced around. The room, a square space filled with rough-hewn tables and benches, was empty of all life except Heather, the tavern owner and a bored cat who studied her from next to a pewter tankard.

The man tightened his grip on her arm. Her gaze flew to his blunt fingers, nails rimmed with dirt dug into her skin. She frowned.

He stepped back. “Remember what I told you…about your magic.”

She shoved a length of hair out of her eyes and sighed. Good Lord, the man was dressed in some kind of tunic and a leather apron. From the strange close-fitting cap on his head to the wooden shoes on his feet, he looked like an extra from Robin Hood or Macbeth or some other classic tale.

“What year is it?” she asked. Could she have time traveled, landing in the middle ages when people believed in witches—hunted them?

Completely ignoring her question, he lifted the lid off a second barrel and pulled out a small wooden box. His large hands shaking, he took a flat stone about the size of an egg from inside.

Seeing he was going to offer no assistance, she started to step out of the barrel.

He placed a hand on her shoulder, stopping her. “Not yet. The barrel is bound in repelling iron—blocks your magic. You get out now and they’ll sense you—be back here in two twitches of a light elf’s nose.”

He dropped his gaze back to the stone in his hands, then held the object out toward her. With an intake of breath, he stared at her.

Heather waited, her agitation growing, but the man just stood, staring. Finally, a rustle of noise outside propelled him into action. “Here.” He thrust the stone into her hand. “Keep this on you. It will protect you.”

Heather ran her thumb over the smooth surface of the rock. It was a dark red with tiny veins of brown crisscrossing its surface. “How?” she asked.

He stared at her again, his fingers curling into his palms. His close perusal caused a bead of sweat to form above Heather’s lip. To cover her anxiety, and to get in a better position to run if needed, she crawled out of the barrel. This time he helped.

The stone still gripped in her hand, she walked the length of the room, studying every aspect of the space as she did. What appeared to be modern lights hung from the ceiling, but aside from that anachronism the place could have been ripped from the middle ages. A fire burned on a stone hearth. Hewn benches and tables lined the walls. And a heavy oak door, complete with iron hinges and a thick wooden cross bar, stood between her and the outside world. She couldn’t help but wonder what lay beyond that closed door, how out of place she would look. She rubbed her palms over her jeans and tugged at the tail of her once-clean shirt.

The man stepped in front of her and lowered the bar with a clunk. Heather swallowed and stepped back.

“What year did you say it is?” she asked again.

He pulled a rolled shade, leather, Heather noted, down over the windows—windows she hadn’t thought to approach, peer out of. Once done, he lowered himself onto a bench and studied her. “Didn’t. Residents of Gunngar don’t take a lot of notice of time.”

Gunngar. Heather searched her brain for any mention of such a place—she came up empty.

At her blank stare, he sighed. “Gunngar used to be a passageway between Svartalfaheim and Alfheim—the only direct route. But years ago, the elves…” He turned his head and spat on the floor. “…shut us down, blocked all exits, trapping anyone who lived here, or had the bad luck to be traveling through that day, in Gunngar.”

Now at least Heather could follow what he was saying. Svartalfaheim, home of Svartalfars…dark elves…and Alfheim, home of light elves. Which meant she was—Heather took a step backward. The backs of her knees hit a bench. She sagged onto it. “I’m somewhere in the nine worlds,” she muttered.

“Gunngar.” The man stared at her from under bushy eyebrows.

She looked up. “And you are?” she asked.

“Arn,” he replied. A thick hand shot toward her.

She wrapped her fingers more tightly around the stone and ignored his offering. She had to get out of here—back to the human world, where she could pretend the other eight worlds didn’t exist. She’d already made the mistake of trying to work with beings of the nine worlds. That and her own stupid desire for power is what landed her here.

She stood. “Where’s the portal?” she asked. Only minutes earlier, the guardian had shoved her through a portal in the human world, sending her into exile as punishment for her part in a plot to free Fenrir, the most powerful of all garm. Unlike Kerr, Heather hadn’t cared about the politics involved in the struggle. She’d only been interested in the payoff promised her by the woman behind the plot: power. Heather had wanted power. Look where that had gotten her. She started to glance around, then stopped herself.

It didn’t matter. She wasn’t staying. She hadn’t killed anyone, hadn’t done anything to deserve this. Kelly, the friend and mentor she’d betrayed, would see that, be over her anger by now. Heather would go back through the portal and beg Kelly to forgive her…show mercy for God’s sake.

Confident Kelly could convince the guardian to rescind his sentence, Heather squared her shoulders and asked again, “Where’s the portal?”

Arn pointed toward the back. “You came from there, but—”

Heather strode past him, shoving a bench out of her way as she went. At the back of the room was a small open doorway. Without pausing, Heather stepped through, and into…a kitchen.

She blinked. No tingle, but the place appeared modern enough—stone countertops, industrial-looking metal box that had to be a refrigerator. She’d made it, she was back in the human world.

She set the stone she’d carried with her onto the countertop and leaned forward, resting her forearms on the cold, polished granite.

“I told you. Hold on to that stone.” Arn rushed through the doorway to shove the stone she’d discarded into her hand.

Her heart sinking and a soft “no” passing her lips, Heather stared back at him. She was still in Gunngar.

 

“I was so sure.” Marina vaulted onto her horse with the grace only a purebred light elf could exhibit. She waited as Kerr lifted himself onto his mare, then reined her stallion beside him. “I noticed what you did in there.”

Kerr stiffened, but his voice remained calm. “What I did?”

“Put yourself between me and the barrel. You thought there was a witch in there, didn’t you? You put yourself between me and the threat.”

Tension smoothed from Kerr’s shoulders. “It’s what garm do. What you hired me to do.”

“Hmm.” Marina tilted her head, her almond-shaped eyes sparkling as she thought. “I’d never met a garm before you and your group arrived. I doubted wolves could be protectors. Hellhounds…I’ve heard they’re impossible to control.”

His mind back on the barrel and the woman hidden inside it, Kerr shrugged. He didn’t mingle with hellhounds, didn’t care about the differences between them and his kind.

“Do you believe in our cause? The importance of the Kampanjen?”

Kerr stared ahead, over the bobbing ears of his horse. The Kampanjen…the Jagers’ crusade to rid Gunngar of witches. Until today he’d given the cause, as Marina called it, little thought. His role was protector of Marina—since she’d hired him, given him a purpose for the first time in his life. Her politics and causes hadn’t concerned him at all…until today.

“Garm protect, guard. That’s all,” he replied.

“So, you don’t care that if we win the Kampanjen, find the witch of legend—the one who will take up the vessel—Gunngar will finally be opened? You’ll be free to travel again. We’ll all be free to return to our families, and the lives that were cut off over a century ago?”

She reined her horse closer and leaned forward, until her long hair caught in the breeze and wrapped around them both. “You don’t care that free to travel back to Alfheim, I could find a place for you and all the garm? Portals, beings, palaces. The light elves would gladly turn over the responsibility for guarding such things.”

Kerr brushed her hair from his face. “Alfheim has never welcomed garm before.”

She laughed, a cool sound like spring water gurgling over stones. “You never had an elfin princess vouch for you before.” Her laugh still dancing over him, she tapped her heels against her stallion’s flanks and moved the animal to a gallop.

Kerr watched her go; the silver-tinted hooves of her horse sparkled even in the dim light.

A place where the garm—all garm, not just the few deemed worthy by the garm council—could have a purpose…something or someone to guard? It was Kerr’s dream. The reason he had joined forces with Fenrir’s lover back in the human world. The reason the garm council saw him and the other garm sent to Gunngar as a threat.

Ironically, their punishment might lead to the fulfillment of that dream.

He just had to do what he’d already agreed to: protect Marina, help her achieve her goal—the death of every witch in Gunngar.

His mind wandered back to the tavern…to the barrel…and two brown eyes filled with fear staring back at him.

W ith one hand wrapped around a tankard and the other covering the stone, which lay balanced on her thigh, Heather studied the burly man across from her. “You’re saying I’m stuck.”

Arn took a sip, then swiped his arm across his mouth. Since he’d led her back into the main room and settled them both down with ales, the tavern owner seemed to have relaxed, but his eyes still held an intensity that made Heather nudge her chair away from the table with a subtle pressure of her toes against the wooden floor.

“Maybe not. Like I said, over a century ago the light elves shut Gunngar down, trapped us all here like rats on a raft. Before that there were three ways out—tunnels to Svartalfaheim and Alfheim and a major portal that went about anywhere.”

“But I’m here,” Heather interrupted. God how she wished she wasn’t, that this was all an awful dream, but the taste of bitter ale coating her tongue, and the pinch of the small wooden chair around her backside assured her she was wide awake and living this nightmare.

“Told you. Roaving portals—they’ve always been one way. A way for other worlds to dump what they don’t want on Gunngar. When the tunnels and main portal were open, it didn’t matter so much. Bad came in, but tended to leak right back out. Gunngar never had much to keep most around.

“But since the closing and the Kampanjen started, there’s been no leaving, just coming.”

The stone under Heather’s palm was warm. She clutched the object so tightly she could feel her own heartbeat reverberating against her skin.

“Kampanjen?” she asked.

Arn took a swig of ale, then leaned forward, both elbows on the table. “Witch hunt. You still got the stone?”

She licked her lips and nodded.

Appearing satisfied, he pulled back.

Witch hunt. Heather bit her lip, hid a sudden surge of anxiety. She’d always been one of the majority—safe in her normalcy. She’d only discovered her powers a few years ago and had almost immediately found others like herself. Never had she had people hate her for something so completely out of her control. She didn’t choose to be a witch. She just was. Damn religious zealots. At least she assumed…

“Religion?” she asked.

Arn grabbed his mug and busied himself swallowing. After a few seconds he lowered it. “More a misunderstanding,” he replied, his eyes shifting back and forth in his face. “The important thing is, you can’t stay here. They’ll kill you.”

He said the last with a bluntness that made Heather suck in a breath.

“Lucky thing is, you’ve got a friend in the inner circle. And not any friend—a garm. If anyone can override the elves’ control and open the portal, it’ll be a garm.”

Kerr. He was suggesting she go to Kerr for help, but…” Inner circle?” she asked.

“He’s one of them now. A group of garm arrived a while back—just like you, dumped through a roaver portal. Was big news here. We’ve never had a garm, let alone the fifty or so that streamed through that day. Most were suspicious of them. Shape-shifters—”

“Forandre,” Heather corrected, while her mind grappled with the “while back.” Kerr and the other rogues had been sent through the portal in the human world only a day or so before Heather. Arn’s comment earlier, that time didn’t mean much in Gunngar, was more true than Heather had thought.

“Forandre,” Arn continued, drawing Heather’s mind back to the present, “aren’t known for their even tempers.”

“But Marina, the Jagers’ leader, said she’d let one work for her—try them out. See if they could be trusted. She picked the one that was here today.”

“And the others?” Heather asked. She had to know. Were they nearby? Could they turn her in?

“Don’t know. But they’re somewhere. Knowing Marina, I’d guess they’re locked up while she decides whether to keep them or not.”

“Or not?” Heather shifted her grip on her tankard.

Arn made a slashing motion across his throat.

Heather swallowed. Did Kerr know? And if he did, would he help her…knowing it might mean the death of the other garm who came with him through the portal?

The stone in her hand grew warmer, almost burning into her palm, but she didn’t drop it. Instead she clung to the rock, as if it might offer more than just the disguise of her powers Arn had promised.

Kerr would never betray the other garm. Never pick her safety over theirs. He wasn’t like Heather. Honor and loyalty were everything to him. Betraying a friend, selling any honor she might have had, landed Heather in this situation…and now Kerr’s value of the two would be what killed her.

But, according to Arn, he was her only chance for help. She had to try.

 

Marina had directed her stallion directly to her home, Jager Headquarters. Once there, she hadn’t addressed Kerr again. Just slid off her horse and strode into her office, closing the door behind her. Kerr could hear voices from inside, but something muffled the sound sufficiently that he couldn’t make out the words.

The rest of their group returned to their own work…manning what looked like radar screens, monitoring Gunngar for any signs of magic—witches. Since Kerr had been here they had yet to find an actual witch. Until today, he’d become comfortable, forgetting their purpose and what it would mean if they did find a witch. That a witch was a being…a being with family, friends…someone he might even know, care about.

“How long will she be in there?” he asked Bresi, the light elf in charge of the Jagers on border control.

“It’ll be a while. You have somewhere to go?”

His mind again flitting to those two brown eyes, Kerr nodded. For the first time since arriving here, he did.

 

This time Kerr left the horse behind, instead choosing to travel by shimmering. The light elves had a fascination with the massive beasts Kerr couldn’t quite fathom. And the horses seemed to share his distaste of them. Perhaps they sensed his wolf half, but whatever the reason, Kerr never thoroughly trusted the animals. He only rode when forced, when he wanted to blend with the Jagers.

It was still daylight when he arrived in front of the tavern, or at least as light as Gunngar got. An eternal smog hovered over the place, never completely blocking the sun, but never letting it burn through, either.

Heather was standing beside a street torch scaled for dwarves. The pole’s diminutive size made her appear different, taller than her average height for a human female. Or perhaps it was more than that. Her body looked more frail than he remembered, and the expression on her face, lost. Her hair was the same though, brown with hints of red, it curved around her shoulders, moved with the slightest angling of her head—the only thing vibrant about her at the moment.

Kerr stepped on the other side of the light pole. At his approach, Heather turned to face the street, and pretended to study the varied inhabitants of Gunngar.

Noticing her perusal, a Svartalfar swerved toward her, a leer on his face and a telling wobble in his gait. Kerr shoved an arm in front of her and lifted his lip in a snarl. The dark elf grinned and scurried on.

“Would you have handed me over?” she asked.

Her question startled him. No acknowledgement for the time passed, for meeting so strangely—just a direct question, jumping to the heart of what she wanted to know. So Heather. She watched him intently, her eyes wide and sad. He wondered if she had even noticed the drunken dark elf who had veered toward her. He swallowed an irrational surge of irritation that she would be so oblivious to the dangers around her.

“I didn’t,” he replied. That was what mattered.

“But, if you didn’t know me, would you have handed me over?” She fumbled with something in her hand, shoved it into her pocket. “Were you just surprised? Is that what stopped you?”

“What’s that?” he asked, and held out one hand.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

He turned to face the street, analyzed the strange mix of beings who slunk along Gunngar’s streets, watched for any threat or even interest in Heather.

She shifted her weight, her bare arm brushing against his; a tingle followed her touch. He pulled away. She did the same.

His heart sped, and he swore he could feel hers racing with his. She pressed her hand against her chest and stared at him with round eyes. He looked away, back to the street. An awareness slipped around him, of her, of the tiny breaths she pulled between her lips, of her fingers curling into her palms. Without thinking, he stepped closer. A soft breeze caught her hair, sent it curling across the few inches that separated them, sent it curling around him. He left it there.

She slid her hand over her hair, pulling it back under control. “Would you have handed me over? Will you?”

The abruptness of her question broke the spell that had wound around him. He took a breath, but resisted the urge to shake himself, to show that he was disturbed. Instead, he shrugged. Tried for the appearance of calm when emotion was rolling around inside him, confusing him.

“I wasn’t hired to hunt witches—just protect Marina,” he said, his voice calm.

“So, you didn’t pull off that lid intending to deliver whoever was hiding there to your boss?”

“She isn’t my boss.” The words came out too quickly, harsh.

Heather didn’t reply, just crossed her arms over her chest and continued to watch the street. “I never dreamed a place like this existed,” she murmured. “It’s like a collage—like someone tore bits from every time and place through history, from storybooks even…” She gestured to a street peddler pushing a wooden cart filled with swinging hanks of meat, caged pigeons and clanking bottles of beer. “…then shook them up and spilled them out here.”

“It’s an In-between Place—lands that don’t really belong in any one world. In Gunngar’s case it’s surrounded by the mist. There are only a few ways in—or were. Most beings stay away from the In-betweens.”

Heather ran her hands up her arms, hugged herself. “I can understand why.”

“Not all of Gunngar’s like this.” Kerr gestured to the diminutive light pole. “There’s land beyond the city, some not populated at all.”

“Is it all this dark…dingy?” She shivered, and Kerr started to reach for her…to what? Pull her close? Warm her? Reassure her? She wasn’t his charge. Just because they had known each other before Gunngar didn’t give him rights to her.

He shoved his hands into his pockets instead. “Everywhere I’ve been. Some parts worse.”

She glanced at him. “I know they’re stuck here now, but why would anyone have chosen to live here when they had a choice?”

Kerr shook his head. “Like I said, most beings avoid the In-betweens, but a few…mainly those who live on the edges of whatever world they’re from…seem to like them. The In-betweens tend to be less regulated, freer. I assume Gunngar was like that once.” Before the place was invaded by light elves. “I don’t think it’s always been this dismal. Because of the mists the In-between Places tend to be a little dark, moody I guess, but this—” he motioned to the street, the trash, the dark water running through the gutters “—this is extreme. It has something to do with the closing, the hunts. All of it’s tied together, but I don’t know how. I’ve just heard snips.”

“Snips,” she repeated. Then she turned, dropped her hands to her sides, her arms stiff. “Any of these snips explain why one group thinks it’s okay to hunt another? Why they want to kill me just because I have powers they don’t?” Her anger was obvious, but it was no excuse for what she’d done, what she’d said out loud—the stupid risk she’d taken.

He didn’t pause to see if anyone was around and had heard her. Forget his earlier thought that he had no rights over her. He jerked her body against his and placed a rough hand over her mouth. Perhaps too rough. She bit him.

With a curse, he dropped his hand. “Don’t say that out loud here,” he muttered, his teeth clenched. Her form was soft against him; he fought to hang on to his ire, to not be distracted by the smell and feel of her beside him.

Even with his blood staining her lips, and anger streaming from her eyes, she looked vulnerable. But her words and tone denied it. “Why not? From what I hear, my biggest threat is right here beside me.” She curled her fingers into fists, and he knew she wanted to hit him. Probably wanted to hit anyone, blame anyone.

She glared at him, her eyes almost black with emotion. “You would have done it, wouldn’t you? If you hadn’t been surprised to see me in that barrel, you’d have cried witch and turned whoever sat inside over to your friends, the Jagers.” She turned her face back to the street.

He waited, not sure how to reply. Not sure what the truth was.

She glanced back at him, her eyes damp, the lip stained with his blood trembling. “Maybe you still plan to. Is that why you’re here? Did you come back to get me? To expose me?” She was deflated now, her anger gone. Just Heather, the witch he’d known in another world. Lost. Alone.

Emotion roiled inside him. He didn’t know her that well, didn’t owe her anything. He’d told her the truth. His job was to protect Marina, not hunt witches, but if part of protecting the Jagers’ leader was hunting witches, if it required turning Heather over to them, what would he do?

He had no answer. Nothing that would make either he or Heather feel better.

While she stared him down, waiting for his declaration, he reached out his thumb and gently wiped away the blood staining her lip.

Then he shimmered.

 

Heather pressed her fingers to the lip Kerr’s thumb had just caressed. Kerr, the good one. The only garm she’d thought of as human, as noble even. She knew in the past he’d had little use for her. How could he have? Everyone had known why she’d joined the rogues’ fight—not to right a wrong, or save anyone, just to gain power for herself. She’d been selfish and disloyal—everything Kerr wasn’t.

Maybe that’s why seeing him now was so disturbing, why learning that he worked for the people who wanted her dead tore at her so. Kerr, the one being she would have sworn couldn’t be corrupted, that she would have trusted with her life, that she should have been relieved to see, now had the power to destroy her. And he was working for the other side.

She pressed her fingers into her upper arms in a punishing hug.

But he hadn’t turned her in, not yet. There was still hope. She had to get past her own confusion and hurt, put aside that maybe he wasn’t the silver-haired hero she’d built him up to be, and get on with saving her life, with asking Kerr for help.

She licked her lips, tasted Kerr’s blood. She needed his help and instead of asking for it, she’d bitten him.

Would even a silver-haired hero help her now?

 

Arn’s eyes followed Heather when she slunk back into the tavern. She didn’t want to talk to him, to anyone. She wanted to be alone for a while, to take a few moments to sort out what was happening to her, but on her entrance, the tavern owner plunked down a pitcher and a steaming tray of meat in front of a group of Svartalfars and followed her to the kitchen.

“Did he agree?” he asked.

Heather stared at him. Despite what the man had done to save her when she first arrived, she didn’t trust him—couldn’t. “Why do you care? Why are you helping me?”

Arn took a step back. “Why? Should I turn you in? Cheer as they drag you through the streets, tie your arms and legs to their horses and pull you in two?”

“Would they—have they?” Heather stammered.

Arn waved a hand. “Not for a while.”

Heather let out a breath.

“Tend to go for burning now.” Not bothering to acknowledge her sudden intake of air, Arn picked up what looked like a butane lighter and a stack of candles that were lying on the counter.

“I didn’t ask him,” Heather admitted.

Arn twisted, his eyes dark. “You didn’t ask?” He put the candles down and took a step forward—into her space. “You have to ask. You have to escape Gunngar.” His voice trembled, his hand trembling, too, as he grabbed her by the bicep and squeezed.

Pain shot through Heather’s arm. She pulled back, but Arn didn’t let go.

“You’ll have to find him. Ask him. Do whatever it takes. He’s our only hope.”

Heather dug her fingers into Arn’s, pried his hand away from her arm. Anger and fear swirling inside her, she stared at the man. “What’s in it for you? Why’s he our only hope?”

Arn dropped her arm as if her skin was searing into his. “You can’t stay here forever. Someone’s going to notice you’re new—they’ll ask questions. You can get the garm to help you. Aside from the magic, use whatever skills…” He glanced at her breasts. Heather pulled back, stopped herself from covering her chest with her hands. Arn looked back at her face, his meaning clear. “…you have.”

Heather stared at him. Seduce Kerr? Use sex to trick him into helping her? Her mind stuttered at the thought. She thought she’d sunk as low as she could when she betrayed Kelly. But what Arn was suggesting felt even lower. She couldn’t do it.

Arn grabbed a hunk of her hair and tugged. “They’ll want to analyze you to find out just what kind of being you are. And we both know what will happen then, don’t we?” With a flick of his thumb, he sent a flame shooting from the tip of the lighter and waved the ends of her hair across it.

Heather cursed and grabbed for his hand, but he’d already stepped away—the lighter clattering onto the floor between them.

She stared at it, her mind swirling. She couldn’t do what Arn suggested. She couldn’t…

 

The morning after his conversation with Heather, Kerr stood in one of the three towers that were connected to Jager Headquarters. The wall and towers were remnants of Gunngar’s past, before the closing—a hodgepodge structure with decorative carvings and statues that had to have been borrowed from other buildings in other worlds. But cobbled together or not, there was still a strange opulence to this part of the complex. An elegance totally missing from the newer main building, which was baldly utilitarian—square and squat, constructed of concrete block, or the Gunngar equivalent.

Guards constantly paced the length of the wall. It was the position Kerr had held when he’d first arrived here, but Marina, having heard tales of garm as guardians, had sought him out, offered him a position as her personal bodyguard. The other garm, the rogues he was with when they came through the portal, had chosen other options—going off on their own to explore this new world.

Only Kerr had chosen to stay, to try to find a place for himself, and the others…if they wanted it.

As he paced out of the tower, onto the main wall, a cry sounded from the street. A woman, her dark hair swirling around her, yanked off a shoe and threw it at a street peddler whose cart was laden with debris dumped by other worlds into Gunngar. He had knocked her off the sidewalk and into the street. The peddler, a dwarf, paused long enough to retrieve the shoe and shoot the female a taunting grin before grabbing the wooden handles of his cart and charging on through the crowd.

Another cry of outrage drew his attention back to the female. This time a troll had wrapped one arm around her waist and was carrying her away like a sack of found gold.

The female twisted, a blue light sizzling from her hands.

Witch. Heather. A fist clutching his heart, Kerr shimmered.

 

Something grabbed Heather from the side and her feet left the ground. Her head swung down causing her hair to slap around her face, blinding her. Her face pressed into someone’s side. His torn shirt reeked of old beer, body odor and meat gone bad. She gagged and struggled to breathe, to keep down the meal of bread and cheese she’d eaten before leaving Arn’s.

She balled her fists and beat on her captor’s side, but he ignored her, breaking into a trot. Around them, no one reacted—no one interfered.

She’d concentrated on avoiding the Jagers, and in the process, let herself be captured by something perhaps far worse.

Her mind raced through the endless and horrifying possibilities—rape, murder, slavery.

Hiding her powers would do her no good if she were killed, perhaps eaten in the process.

Fear and instinct took over. She held out her hands, pulled energy as quickly as she could and prepared to zap her captor to hell and beyond.

Without warning, her captor fell, dropping her onto the paving stones that made up the street. Her head hit first, bouncing up then back down. Her sight blurry, she struggled to sit, to see where her attacker was, to fight. She raised her hands, blue lines of power zigzagging between them and was knocked to the ground again.

 

Kerr saw the power surging between Heather’s hands. Cursing, he dropped his arm from around the troll’s neck, shoved him to the ground and leaped at the ignorant witch. He landed on her, straddling her. Her body was warm beneath his. She squirmed against his weight, pressed against his groin. His body reacted, hardening.

“Stop it,” he muttered against her ear, grimacing against the urge to press against her, too—to, despite the filthy street and staring crowds, cover her body with his, feel her soft curves beneath him.

“Do you have no idea where you are? Who is watching?” He glanced up, toward the tower where a group of Jager guards stood. Not waiting for Heather to reply, he grabbed her hands and shoved them down, out of sight.

“Kerr—” she started, her face creased with confusion. Then her expression shifted. Her eyes rounding in horror, she shoved at him, tried to stand.

The troll’s roar reached him first, then his smell. Kerr had only seconds to shimmer before the being’s meaty hand swiped forward, brushing through the air over Heather’s body where Kerr had been.

The troll pulled back, frowned and turned, searching for Kerr. When he found him, the troll stopped, his lips splitting into a gap-toothed grin. Kerr widened his stance, prepared for the attack, but as the troll staggered forward, something flew from behind the creature—striking him in the back of the head.

The troll jerked around in one keeling motion, then bent to retrieve the missile that had struck him. Heather’s remaining shoe dangled from his hand.

Another curse flew to Kerr’s lips, but he had no time to utter the expletive, to even think as the troll lumbered forward, covering the space between him and Heather in seconds. His hand wrapped in her hair, he pulled her close, bent back her neck and ran his tongue down her face, her neck, her body.

Something inside Kerr reacted—broke. A growl erupted from his throat, and his body began to shift—changing from human to wolf before the troll had lifted his face from Heather or set her back on the ground.

Kerr’s hair bristled, stood straight with anger. He leaped again—this time his jaws open and aimed for the troll’s neck.

 

Heather shuddered as the troll’s tongue slithered, hot and wet, over her skin. He was testing her, tasting her.

She could have ran while he was focused on Kerr—should have—but she hadn’t. Like a fool, she’d drawn the troll’s attention back to her—for what? To save a garm who might have already revealed her to the group that wanted her dead?

But…she closed her eyes, blocked out the feel of the troll’s tongue trailing across her bare skin…Kerr had saved her once.

At least she’d had the chance to return the favor.

Suddenly, she was flipped again, set back on her feet. The troll stood an arm’s length away—his long arm’s length—grinning. Anger bubbled inside her.

Damn the Jagers. Damn their witch hunt. She wouldn’t stand here and just await her fate.

She held out her arms, power tingling at her fingertips. The troll frowned, then reached out to grab her again, but as he did, as his fingers brushed against the energy surging from inside her, a gray body hit him from the side and blood spurted from his neck.

H ell broke free. A gray wolf, Kerr, Heather realized, hung from the troll’s neck, his body jerking back and forth as he used every bit of his strength to tear at the gigantic creature. The troll stumbled back, grabbed Kerr with both hands and tried to tug him free, but the wolf’s grip held.

Blood, the color of rust, streamed from the troll’s neck, puddled at his feet. The world shook as if attacked by rolling strikes of lightning and thunder. Heather fell to the ground and watched as the troll curled back his lips in rage and pounded his bare feet into the earth. Grappling with Kerr, he spun. Blood sprayed over Heather and the gathering crowd.

Heather wiped spatter from her face, from her eyes—and tried to ignore the accompanying metallic stench.

She stared down at her hand, covered in gore, then leaned over to empty her stomach, to deposit her bland breakfast of bread and cheese into the gutter. She was doubled over, gagging, when the whistles sounded. Archers…elves…flooded from gates that had opened silently behind her.

An archer lifted his bow, released a shot. Almost in slow motion, Heather watched as the arrow arced through the air, then struck the troll square in the chest. The creature’s eyes rolled back in his head, his knees bent and he toppled forward—directly toward Kerr.

“Kerr,” Heather screamed, jumping to her feet—her sickness forgotten.

Waves formed in the air under the falling troll, and a surge of magic rushed toward Heather. Without thinking, she opened her hands and pulled it in—saving it. A second later, Kerr, still in wolf form, stood beside her. His tail twitched. His mouth hung open, and his head stayed low. Heather tried to touch him, but he shook her off, his gaze glued to the fallen troll.

 

Kerr brushed aside Heather’s touch. He was focused—too focused—on the troll that had tumbled to the ground in front of him to be distracted. The acrid taste of troll blood filled his mouth. His fur was caked with the stuff. The troll was down, but inside Kerr a battle went on—a battle against himself as he tried to calm down, tried to defeat the need to throw himself back on the creature and continue to rip out his throat, shred muscle to bone.

Kerr had never felt this much hate—it scared him.

While he stood, legs stiff, a rough pant coming from his mouth, Heather gathered his clothes and dropped them at his feet. She shot him a furtive glance, fear laced with concern rounding her eyes. He turned his head, hiding his eyes to keep the madness running free inside him from her view.

Four Jager archers crept toward him, their arrows pointed toward the ground, but their arms stiff—ready to fire.

“Garm?” one called.

Heather slipped her hand inside her pocket, then pulled back, away from the approaching Jager, but still within reach of Kerr. He shook himself, knocking against her, letting her know with his body pressure that he had things under control, and that she would be all right. Then he closed his eyes, took one deep breath and released it, willing his mind and body back under control as he did.

“Garm?” the archer called again.

His eyes still closed, Kerr forced down the growl that sprang to the back of his throat. Garm. He’d worked with the Jagers for weeks, and they still didn’t see him as a person—only an oddity.

Of course, the reason for their limited view was fear. An emotion Kerr wasn’t adverse to using for his own goals.

“Yes?” he spoke inside the archer’s head. The elf’s already pale complexion lightened to ash. But the Jager were trained well. The young elf’s shock soon passed and he shook off his discomfort.

“What happened? We heard the fight, then felt a surge. Is there a witch here?” His gaze shot to Heather.

Kerr sat, his back pressing against Heather. “Just me shifting.” He stared at the archer with bored regard. “But the troll…” He flipped his nose toward the comatose creature. “…he was rampaging—threatening to cause a panic. I was concerned the crowd would become anxious. A riot might have broken out.”

“Really?” The archer turned a skeptical glance at the troll. “We’ve had no problems with mountain trolls in the past. They tend to stay hidden in their rocks and caves. And when they do wander into the city, they keep to their own kind. They are basically gentle if somewhat dimwitted.”

Behind Kerr, Heather let out a hmmph of disbelief. Kerr kept his own incredulity at the elf’s misinformation contained to a cocked eyebrow before continuing, his words projected in both the elf’s and Heather’s minds this time. “I must have stumbled across the exception.”

Missing the dryness of his tone, the elf lowered his bow, then signaled for the other archers to follow suit. “Perhaps. To be safe, we’ll keep him stored. There should still be room.” He slid the arrow into the quiver hanging from his back and sauntered to the fallen troll.

While the Jager worked on rolling the troll onto his back and attaching his ankles to two harnessed horses, Kerr shifted to his human form and pulled on his clothes. Heather watched, her hands shoved into her pockets and her expression wary.

“You covered—” she started.

“You screwed up.” Kerr’s words bristled with anger.

Heather dropped her shoulders and pulled her fisted hands from her pockets. “By trying to defend myself? Because what that…” She glanced at the troll now being dragged through the Jager headquarters’ gate. A tremor shook her. “…would have been so much more pleasant than the Ja—”

Kerr grabbed her by the arm; his fingers dug into her flesh. “You need a keeper.”

Her eyes flashed, but then she dropped her gaze and pulled back. With a twist she pulled her arm free from his hold and pressed her fingers against her already bruising skin.

 

Heather swallowed her ire. Kerr was right…at least partially. She didn’t need a keeper as he so sweetly put it, but she did need his help. Damn garm everywhere.

“I have to talk to you,” she said, raising her gaze.

He glowered, his blue eyes sparking, then fisted and unfisted his hands. “I tried that already.”

Heather released a breath through closed teeth. “I was…am scared, okay? I apologize if I wasn’t as welcoming as I could have been.”

He lifted one blond brow.

Heather waited. She wouldn’t apologize again…she wouldn’t…

“I’m sorry.” The words exploded from her mouth. She pressed a hand to her face. She had never begged for anything in her life, took pride in that when there was little else to be proud of, but she knew how much the other garm meant to Kerr. How could she get him to risk them for her? She had nothing to offer.

Desperation made her move closer. She grabbed him by the arm, her fingers digging into muscle rigid with tension. “I need to escape this place. I can’t live like this, constantly hiding who I am. I can’t even defend myself. Sooner or later I’m going to have to choose—expose my powers or let something like…” Her gaze wandered to the troll’s bare feet disappearing through the gate behind Kerr. She licked her lips and looked back at the garm. “I have to get out of here.”

Kerr let out a breath. “There is no way out. The light elves won’t reopen Gunngar until the Kampanjen is complete.”

Heather felt a flicker of hope. “How?”

Kerr studied her face. “There’s a vessel they want to find. I don’t know much about it.”

Heather waited, thinking she’d have to ask Arn about this new tidbit. He hadn’t mentioned any vessel.

“If they find that…” Kerr wrapped his fingers around Heather’s wrist, a gentle touch, but firm. “…and think all witches are dead. Then maybe they’ll open Gunngar.”

Heather started to jerk away, but Kerr held his grip, his tone intense. “That’s why you have to watch yourself. The only way Gunngar will be opened is if you are dead.”

Unable to move away, Heather stepped closer. “But there’s a portal. Arn said a garm could open it—override the elves’ shutdown.”

Kerr frowned. His grip on her wrist loosened.

“I know it’s a lot to ask, that you’d be risking the other rogues, but the Jagers wouldn’t have to find out.”

His fingers again a steel band around her wrist, Kerr pulled her against him until her breasts pressed against his chest and she could smell the metallic scent of the troll’s blood on his skin. “Risking the other rogues. What do you mean by that?”

Heather blinked up at him. “You don’t…you don’t know.” He hadn’t known. Rather than talking him into opening the portal, she’d just supplied him with the biggest reason she could think of not to help her.

“I don’t know what?” His voice was low, tense with menace. She opened her mouth, ready to lie, but a light in his eyes—worry, shock—stopped her. “The other rogues. The Jager have them somewhere. Arn said they were holding them until they saw how you worked out.”

“How I work out?”

Heather nodded; a flicker of sympathy caused her to drop her gaze. “Your group was the first garm to come to Gunngar—maybe ever. The Jager want to know if you can be useful…and trusted.” She whispered the last words, cursing her honesty as she did. Why couldn’t she lie to him like she had lied to so many others in the past? And to gain so much more than she had ever wanted—needed—in the past?

Kerr stared at her, his expression blank. Somewhere behind them a whistle pierced the air. He jerked away from her, dropping her wrist.

“I have to go,” he said.

“But…the portal?” she asked.

He had already begun striding toward the gate, but he stopped to look at her. “I can’t help you. You’ll have to learn to survive here just like the rest of us.” Without another word, he disappeared through the gate.

Heather ran forward, but the heavy metal gate had already clinked to a close. She wrapped her fingers around the iron bars, and rested her forehead in the space between them.

Now what? Where could she go now?

 

Kerr stood in line with the other Jagers, waiting for Marina to give them their assignments for the day. His mind buzzed with Heather’s words…the other rogues held somewhere, waiting for him to prove the garm’s worth…or what? Death?

Fifty rogues had come through the portal. Kerr wasn’t close to any one of them in particular, but he’d been their leader, was responsible for their failure in the human world and their exile to this one. He’d thought they’d each left the city of free choice—gone to explore, find their own lives in Gunngar.

But now…he hardened his jaw. He knew Heather had spoken the truth. It explained why he’d heard nothing of, or from, the other rogues and why he was still seen as something unique wherever he went. As far as anyone besides Marina and the other Jagers who had greeted his group when they arrived knew, Kerr was the only garm in Gunngar.

But Kerr knew differently.

He had to find them. Free them.

Free. His thoughts flitted to Heather. She’d asked him to help her. He’d been swayed for a moment, when she had first mentioned the portal, another tidbit Marina had neglected to mention to Kerr. But when Heather had told him about the rogues, he’d shut down, stopped listening.

He sent her away, her brown eyes, sad, alone.

Guilt flickered inside him, but he tamped it down. Too much time here in Gunngar separated from his own kind—cut off from everything he knew—had softened him, made him imagine an attraction, a connection to Heather that wasn’t real. He had to push past that, to focus on what was real, what he’d believed in all of his life—an equal chance for all garm to prove their ability to guard, to be guardians, to belong.

Heather would be fine. She’d learn to cope, like he had. She’d find a place for herself. She wasn’t in any real danger…not as long as she kept her powers hidden.

She had to be.

He couldn’t help her and was beginning to almost fear her and the feelings he battled every time she was near.

“Kerr.” Marina ground to a halt in front of him. “I heard there was a problem outside earlier.”

Jerked from thoughts of Heather, Kerr studied the female awaiting his answer. The Jager leader was commanding but also seductive. He had supposed it was how all elves were. Now though, with his new suspicions, he saw something else. An extra edge to the glint in Marina’s eyes changed her from attractive and commanding to just ruthless.

“Nothing major,” he replied.

“Really?” She arched a brow and tilted her head, assessing him. “A mountain troll taken down by one…man.” She pursed her lips. “I would have liked to have been there.”

“I’m sure you were better entertained elsewhere.”

“I doubt that.” She slapped a rolled piece of paper she held against one palm. “War plans, strategy, new technology to find the vessel and witches, of course. Very dull.”

Kerr hid the chill that shot through him at the mention of witches. “So, he’s imprisoned now?” He paused, caught her gaze. “With the others?”

“Others?” Marina’s eyes sharpened. “We have no other trolls here.”

“My mistake.”

 

Heather pushed open the tavern’s door. She’d come back for one simple reason—she had nowhere else to go. Arn was strange, scary even, but he knew her secret and like Kerr he hadn’t turned her in…yet. If she disappeared—tried to set off on her own, would that change? Friend or enemy, she wasn’t sure where Arn fell in the equation, but she needed to keep an eye on him.

The lunch rush was in full swing, but on seeing her, Arn dropped the platter of food he’d been holding onto the bar and shoved his way through the crowd of dwarves, elves and other beings waiting for a seat.

“Did you ask him?” he said, his dark eyes searching her face.

Heather nodded then shook her head. “He said no.” She shoved a hand into her hair and watched Arn from the corner of her eye. He scowled, his expression so dark, a group of dwarves entering the door behind Heather hurried back out.

“Come with me.” He grabbed Heather by the same wrist Kerr had jerked earlier and pulled her through the crowd. Her lips thin, Heather let him.

In the kitchen he released her and yanked open a drawer. From inside he pulled a chain and an egg-shaped loop of metal. “For the stone. I got it today. Had it made so even mounted the stone will touch your skin.”

Heather watched the loop of silver-colored metal swing back and forth from his thick fingers. “You had it made?” she asked. Giving her the rock was one thing, but this gift rang every alarm bell of suspicion Heather possessed. “Why?”

“So you don’t lose the stone. Where is it?” Arn reached his free hand toward her, as if he was going to pull her forward and search her.

She stepped back and shoved her hand into her pocket to pull out the stone.

“It wasn’t next to your skin?” Arn placed his palm flat on the counter beside him. “It has to stay next to your skin.”

Heather frowned. “I had it in my pocket. It seemed to work.”

“Seemed to work?” Arn snatched up the stone and quickly placed it on the metal loop. After pressing several prongs flat around the rock, he held it out to her.

The pendant swung from his fingers in a hypnotizing back-and-forth motion. Heather wanted to reach out and grab it, secure it around her neck, but a tickle of doubt stopped her. She turned her back on Arn and the stone and started talking instead. In rushed words, she told him about the troll and how close she had come to the Jagers, how the stone had been in her pocket the whole time and the Jagers hadn’t sensed her, that his extra gift seemed unnecessary.

“Doesn’t matter how it seems. The stone needs access to your skin.” Arn stepped forward and without waiting for her permission, slipped the chain over her neck. The pendant knocked against her breastbone, bare under her partially unbuttoned shirt.

Arn stepped back. “Perfect.” He glanced back at Heather’s face, his expression stern. “Keep it there.”

Heather moved her hand to the pendant nestled between her breasts. The previously cold stone seemed to vibrate under her palm…throb slightly. She pulled her hand back. Imagination. This entire trip…being thrust through the portal, hunted, then turned down by Kerr…was beginning to affect her mind.

She glanced at Arn. The intensity she’d noticed in him the prior day was back. He watched her as if waiting for…something. A wave of discomfort rippled over her. She grabbed the pendant and started to pull it over her head.

Arn reached for her again. This time she sidestepped, avoiding his grasp.

“Don’t,” she said. Since arriving in Gunngar she had been manhandled too often, too freely. Powers or no powers, afraid for herself or not, she was tired of it.

Arn froze, his jaw jutting to the side. “If you don’t wear it, they’ll find you.”

Heather let out a breath, but made no further move to remove the pendant. “Am I the only witch left in Gunngar? Are there others?”

“Some.”

Heather’s shoulders dropped, a tiny bit of the tension she’d been holding there released. “Where are they? Can I go to them?” She needed someone like her, someone who understood what she was going through, someone she could talk to.

Arn shook his head. “It isn’t safe. If we let the witches get together, it’d be easier for the Jagers to find them.”

Heather frowned. “We?” It hadn’t occurred to Heather that anyone other than Arn was involved in his commitment to hide her.

Arn shifted his eyes toward the tavern’s main room. “I need to get back.” He moved away from the counter where he’d been leaning, but Heather grabbed him by the sleeve halting his exit.

“Who is we?”

He stared at her in stubborn refusal. She again reached for the pendant and started to pull it over her head.

“The Bevarers,” he muttered.

Heather dropped her hand. “The Bevarers?”

His face twisted into a frown. “Secret society created to fight the Jagers.” He let go of each word as if it pained him.

“You—your group—save witches? Get them out of Gunngar, like the Underground Railroad?” Even though Arn had been helping her, she couldn’t quite cast him into the role of altruist.

He frowned, obviously not understanding her reference. “We hide them—give them identities, ways to hide their powers.”

“You don’t help them escape?”

He shrugged. “Haven’t.”

“But you…” Confused, she stopped.

“Until the garm came, we didn’t see a way, besides it didn’t matter.”

“Didn’t matter?” How could it not matter? Men and women forced to hide who they were…to live in fear.

A yell sounded from the main room. Arn took a step toward the door, then paused. “You’ll wear the stone?”

She pressed her fingers against the pendant, the stone was cool again—just a rock, a simple rock. Why was she letting Arn’s desire that she wear it unnerve her? The stone seemed to do what he promised. She nodded.

His expression smoothed, then Arn strode into the main room, yelling at his patrons as he did.

“Bevarers,” Heather whispered the word. She wasn’t as alone as she’d thought. There were other witches somewhere in Gunngar. And these Bevarers apparently had set them up with lives, a way to survive. Arn hadn’t shared that with her before, but obviously that was because he’d thought Kerr would help her.

Now she had hope. There were people to help her. She might never love her life in Gunngar, but at least she could have one. And if Kerr succeeded in his goal, getting the other garm free, maybe one of them would listen to her, help her.

The important thing was she wasn’t alone. If Kerr wouldn’t help her, surely Arn’s Bevarers would.

 

Kerr walked the halls of Jager Headquarters, casual, but with purpose, as if he knew where he was headed, but was in no rush to get there.

Before the elfin archer had hauled away the troll he’d said, “There should still be room.” At the time, Kerr hadn’t questioned the comment, but now after hearing the other rogues weren’t free as Kerr had been told, the statement took on new meaning.

“What are you doing back here?” A Jager guard thrust a spear across the hallway, blocking Kerr’s next step, a step that would have taken him through a doorway, down stairs he hadn’t noticed before today.

“I’m looking for the dungeon. And the troll that was put there.”

The guard didn’t move.

Kerr placed a hand on the spear, started to push it aside. The guard moved in a blur of burgundy cloth. Before Kerr could blink, a dagger was pressed against his throat. “No one is admitted to the dungeon. Not without written permission from Marina.”

Kerr froze. The dagger was no threat to him, fast as the elf was, he couldn’t beat a shimmer. But it was too soon. Kerr didn’t know enough, didn’t even know for sure the rogues were being held as Heather had said. If he challenged the guard, he’d tip his hand, and he’d lose—maybe not this fight, but everything else.

He cocked an eyebrow. “I didn’t realize. Just wanted to see how the troll was healing. I messed him up pretty badly.”

“You’re the garm?” The guard lowered the dagger, but his eyes flitted to the side. Kerr recognized the nervous gesture. He was looking for backup, willing them to appear.

Kerr took a step back, relaxed his posture. “That’s right, but I don’t want to get you in any trouble. I was just curious.”

The guard relaxed, too, his shoulders softening and his gaze settling onto Kerr.

Kerr crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the stone wall. “How’d they get him in there?” He gestured to the narrow winding steps behind the guard. “Not down those.”

The guard laughed. “No, this place was built for elves and dwarves, not trolls. There’s another entrance, opens direct to the outside.”

Kerr nodded. Something else he hadn’t noticed.

“Think it’s strong enough to hold a troll?”

The guard shook his head. “Nothing’s escaped from there yet.”

“But a troll? I heard you’d never had to lock one up.”

“A troll’s nothing. What I wonder about is the—” He stopped, his gaze locking onto Kerr’s. When Kerr made no response, he continued. “I’ve learned not to question Marina. She says the dungeon can hold a troll, I believe her.”

“And maybe more?” Kerr suggested.

“A lot more.”

 

“You won’t help me?” Her stomach sinking to her feet, Heather stared at Arn. “But last night you said that’s what your group did—help witches.”

“I gave you the stone.” Arn swept a table full of dirty mugs into a metal tub with his arm.

“But…” Stunned by his refusal to set her up with a new life, or even put her in contact with the Bevarers, Heather couldn’t place the words banging around in her brain into a sentence.

“Go back to the garm. Get him to open the portal.” Arn shoved the tub under his arm and stared at her. “Do I have to spell it out? Seduce him if you have to. You’re attractive enough, and he’s alone here. Getting him between your thighs shouldn’t be that difficult.”

Heather winced at his rough words.

“Give him what Marina—superior bitch that she is—won’t and you’ll get his loyalty. It’s your best hope.” With a last disgusted look, Arn trudged into the kitchen.

“But…” As he disappeared behind the door, Heather’s words faded to a whisper. Seduce Kerr? She’d told herself she couldn’t do it, wouldn’t do it, but now with nowhere else to go, no one to turn to, what choice did she have?

S omething was going on. Elves had been coming and going from Jager Headquarters all day. Rider after rider flew through the gates, then scurried up the stairs and into Marina’s private sanctuary. After only seconds, they returned to their horses and left. The day was filled with the sound of hooves pounding against paving stones and screams as citizens of Gunngar darted and rolled to avoid being trampled.

As yet another elf hurried from Marina’s office, Kerr paused in front of her door, left ajar after her most recent visitor’s exit. She sat at her desk, what appeared to be a laptop open in front of her. The piece of modern machinery seemed out of place. Seeing it caused Kerr to pull back.

In Gunngar surrounded by horses, castles and beings dressed like the medieval past, it was easy to forget such technology existed. But the region had modern lights and plumbing, even radar screens the Jagers used to track witches. Why not other modern technologies as well? But then again he hadn’t seen, until just now, any sign of MP3 players or cell phones—phones at all for that matter—or computers.

But Marina was definitely occupied tapping away on the silver notebook sitting on her desk. What did the object offer her? Was it connected to other computers in Gunngar? How about the outside worlds? Did Marina have a method for communicating with those outside of Gunngar? Were there other methods of communication he’d missed or that had been hidden from him?

As he stood contemplating exactly what that possibility might mean, another elf wandered up behind him. Kerr heard him, felt the tension flowing from his body, but he feigned disinterest and waited until the other male spoke before turning to face him.

“Marina doesn’t tolerate spies.” Gal watched Kerr, his eyes uncharacteristically dark for an elf, intent.

Kerr tilted his head. “Spy? That’s a new insult. And who would I be spying for?”

Gal didn’t move, but Kerr could sense his desire to turn, to shift his gaze to Marina. Instead, he took a step closer to the garm. “If not a spy then what? Why are you watching her? You have no hope with her. She’s royal. Did you know that? She won’t dally beneath her.”

Dally? Kerr concealed his surprise. Gal thought Kerr was interested in Marina—as a female. Could I use this?

“What makes you sure?” Kerr cocked his brow as he examined Gal. The elf was shorter than Kerr by at least a hand’s length, but still stood a good two inches taller than any of the other Jagers.

Gal’s eyes flashed, but so quickly Kerr almost missed the spark of emotion. The elf stiffened, his body angling toward Kerr in obvious threat. The sound of laughter followed by curses echoing up from the courtyard below halted his movement.

“Gal, we have something for you.” The call came from the courtyard, the tone taunting, then more laughter and the muffled sound of struggling.

Both Kerr and Gal strode to a window left open to allow in the breeze.

Below, her back pressed against an elf’s smooth wool tunic, her mouth covered by his hand, stood Heather. Her hair was tousled, whether by the wind or struggles with the elf, Kerr didn’t know, but he knew too well what he wanted to do about it. He recognized too instantly the rage that fired to life inside him as she was pulled even closer to the male who held her, her face tilted up toward the window where he and Gal stood.

“A pretty little human, come to call. Is she yours, Gal?” The elf laughed and pressed his lips close to Heather’s neck, kissing her skin or whispering in her ear. Kerr’s fingers pressed into the stone opening of the window, his knuckles glowing white. Until he heard the rumble rolling from Gal’s throat, he didn’t realize the elf beside him was having a similar response. Before Kerr could analyze Gal’s reaction, the elf spun and flew down the stairs in the flowing, even strides only an elf could manage.

His anger somewhat dampened by curiosity, Kerr shimmered, materializing behind the elf who held Heather. Other elves stood only a few feet away, humor creasing into lines around their eyes, their arms folded over their chests as if waiting for a show to begin. Heather waited, too, her body tense and ready to flee, but her struggles had stopped.

Kerr hesitated. Heather was unharmed and while the elf held her too close for Kerr’s liking, she didn’t seem to be at much risk at the moment.

And something else was going on—some play the Jager had set up to entertain themselves. A play at Gal’s expense it appeared. A weakness in what Kerr had thought of as a strong front. If the other Jager saw Gal as someone to torment, someone on the outside of their special group, could Kerr use that? Could it help him in his plan to free the other garm?

As the thought formed in Kerr’s mind, the main door to headquarters flew open and Gal strode through.

 

Heather had tried to pull away from her captor, cursing for the thousandth time her inability to use her powers. The elf, surprisingly strong for his small stature and lithe form, had ignored her struggling, instead his attention had flowed to a window overhead. With a low laugh he’d pulled his hand tighter across her mouth and tilted her face upward.

Kerr and another man had stood in the window. Both had stared down at her, their eyes narrowed. Heather’s gaze had locked onto Kerr, and she’d cursed her situation again. This is not how she had wanted to come to him. Not how she wanted him to see her—for anyone to see her.

She might not have been the most powerful witch back in the human world, but even just as a woman she had more power, more respect than she had here. She wasn’t sure if it was because of her gender, or her apparent lack of powers, but in Gunngar she was nothing—less than nothing.

The thought burned through her, emphasizing the need for her visit today. To convince Kerr to help her escape this damned place any way she could.

As she’d watched, Kerr had shimmered. She waited, her eyes moving side to side, searching for the telltale glimmer that signaled he was solidifying beside her, that he was coming to her rescue, again.

But there was nothing, no movement at all. Even her captor stood still, waiting for what Heather wasn’t sure. Then the doors of Jager Headquarters flew open and the man who had stood beside Kerr strode through them.

The taunting chuckle of the elf who held her and the determined scowl of the one who paced toward her combined to tell Heather this wasn’t about her, but she was about to be caught in the middle of a deadly fight all the same.

 

“So, Gal. I found this little human skulking around. Is she yours?” The elf who held Heather brushed his cheek against hers, but Kerr could see his attention was really on Gal. “You know Marina doesn’t tolerate the weak in Jager Headquarters. Well…” He laughed and tilted his head back toward Gal. “…not normally.” He twisted Heather to the side, until her buttocks pressed into his thigh, opening himself up for attack, but he seemed unconcerned, almost to have forgotten that Heather was a living being able to fight back.

Caught up in watching Gal, the elf continued, “Tell you what. Let’s make a deal. You tell us…” He gestured with a toss of his head to the elves surrounding them. “…why Marina tolerates a half-breed like you here, and I’ll give you my new toy. It’s been a while hasn’t it? I know none of the elfin femmes would risk the mistake your mother made.”

A deep guttural sound exploded from Gal’s lips. His head lowered, he charged toward the elf. Heather’s captor, having accomplished his goal, shoved her away from him, like so much trash. As she moved, Kerr saw Heather’s hand skim the top of the elf’s belt, saw her fingers close around the black handle of a blade he kept sheathed there. There was the glimmer of sharp metal as she pulled the knife free, then she landed in the dirt on her knees.

Two other elves reached from behind to grab her by the arms, but she spun in the dirt, light dancing across the length of the six-inch-long blade.

“Hell’s fury,” one of them cursed.

Her chest moving up and down with each breath, Heather stared back at them. Her hair moved wildly around her face, almost as if it was alive, too, and feeling her anger. Her eyes, filled with emotion, were almost black voids, waiting to be filled—like she could suck the spirits from the males who threatened her. An eeriness crept up Kerr’s spine. The elves must have felt it, too. They stepped back.

One darted a look to the other. “She’s just a human, isn’t she?”

“Must be. A witch could never make it in here without setting off an alarm,” the other mumbled back.

“So…” The first nodded toward Heather who had started to sway, her body moving side to side in a slow hypnotic dance that made Kerr want to edge closer while a deep part of his brain screamed that something wasn’t right, that the beckoning sway of Heather’s form spelled danger.

The knife twinkled and Heather continued to sway. Kerr could feel his heart beat with each of her movements back, then forth.

Nothing to fear, come closer, she seemed to call, but her lips were sealed, curled in a tiny pretense of a smile. Her hair, which had looked so wild before, smoothed, gleaming as brightly as the knife. Suddenly her movement seemed natural. She was beckoning him. She wanted him. He began to move; his gaze fixed on her dark eyes, he placed one foot in front of the other.

He had gone no more than a few shuffling steps when he collided with something, someone blocking his path—stopping him from reaching his goal.

His head snapped to the side. A growl formed in his throat, his first thought to rip out the throat of whoever blocked his path.

The two elves who had tried to grab Heather only moments earlier stared up at him. Their bright green eyes were clouded, so clouded Kerr doubted they could see him. Even though he placed a hand in front of the one blocking his path, the elf continued to shuffle his feet as if he was still moving forward—toward Heather.

“Get out of their way, garm.” It was Heather’s voice, but the tone was foreign. Kerr swiveled, surprise knocking him out of his hypnotized state. Still kneeling, her eyes still focused on the elves, Heather curled one hand toward herself. “Let them come to me.”

A frown pulled at Kerr’s forehead. This wasn’t the Heather he knew. She was spirited, even blinded by anger at times, but he’d never seen her this cold, this calculating. Had the elves done something to her? Given her something?

As he hesitated, a curse sounded to his left. Gal picked up the elf who had first held Heather and tossed him into a pile of discarded wooden crates. The wood splintered. A groan of pain announced the elf’s landing, but true to his kind, he flipped his body back to a stand and reached for the knife he thought was tucked in his belt.

Surprise straightened his shoulders. He stared at his empty hand then glanced around the courtyard ground as if the blade might have fallen during his battle. As his gaze passed over Heather he froze. A curse broke free from his lips and with elfin agility he dropped into a roll, somersaulting directly toward the witch.

Muttering his own curse, Kerr leaped hitting Heather and shimmering in the same instant.

 

A weight hit Heather, knocking her backward before she had the chance, the thought even, to strike out with the knife she held. Still, she felt the blade jerk in her hand and knew she’d struck something.

The impact jarred her loose from the fog that had settled around her; she blinked and tried to remember where she was, why she held the knife, what she had been doing, but before any pieces could fall into place, her side where she’d been hit started to tingle. Within two breaths the feeling spread until her entire body prickled as if she were splintering into a million pieces. Not uncomfortable, just…strange.

She’d felt the sensation before, but where…

 

The scene around Heather changed. She was no longer outside, crouched on hard cobblestones that dug into her knees. She was instead in a small cell-like room: white walls, a single bed covered in a gray blanket and nothing more—no pictures, no other furniture, not even a window.

Panic pushed her to her feet. Had she given herself away? Had the Jager caught her, imprisoned her?

A hand, firm and cool, touched her arm. “Are you all right? Did they give you something?”

At Kerr’s voice, Heather jerked, then spun to face him.

The garm stood so close, the knife Heather held brushed against him, the blade catching on his shirt. He pulled back. His shirt clung to his abdomen in one spot, a tear in the material clearly showing what Heather’s blade had struck down in the courtyard.

Heather pulled a short breath through her lips. “I…that was you?” she murmured. Heather wasn’t new to blood, or violence. When working with the garm in the human world, she’d seen plenty of both, caused her fair share of it, but this was different. She hadn’t meant to cut Kerr, hadn’t…she paused, her brain struggling to remember what had happened down in the courtyard. She’d been there, held by the elf. Then he’d thrown her away. She’d grabbed his weapon as she moved. But after that things grew vague—as if she’d seen the events from somewhere else, somewhere close by where she could hear everything, feel everything, but had control of nothing, not even her own body.

Kerr wrapped cool fingers around her wrist and slowly removed the knife from her fingers. Staring at him, knowing her eyes reflected her confusion, Heather let him.

“Did he give you something?” Kerr’s brows lowered as he studied Heather. “Did you feel a prick or anything?” He ran his hand slowly under her hair, lifting it off of her neck. His thumb brushed the skin there, so lightly Heather could only stare back at him in amazement.

She wasn’t used to being treated this way, delicately, as if she might shatter at any moment. She should hate it, she knew that. She was strong, a survivor. She’d survived being bullied by the garm in the human world, attacked by creatures she couldn’t even describe, and survived here so far, too. No one had ever offered to help her. Every bit of security Heather had ever had she’d acquired all on her own. And it had been hard, lonely.

To have Kerr watch her with such concern, to give even the slightest sign he might help her, made her want to let out the breath she’d felt as if she’d been holding most of her life and to let her body sag against him.

“I don’t see anything here. Did he touch you somewhere else?” Kerr’s hands moved from Heather’s neck, down her shoulders, then over her arms. Slowly he traced the blue veins running down the underside of her arms. His head was tilted. She could see the haphazard part of his hair, as if he did no more than wash it then shake, much like his wolf half would do.

She swallowed. “I didn’t feel anything,” she whispered. She could barely hear her own response over the pounding of her heart, but she couldn’t speak any louder.

“You’re sure? You weren’t acting…” He paused. His hands had made their way down to hers. His thumbs pressed against her palms. “Did he give you something then? Slip something in a pocket, or say something? Something that sounded—” He stopped again.

“Magic?” she finished for him. She shook her head. “No, he just held me, tight.” She thought back to being discovered by the elf, the laugh he’d released when he’d seen her, how he had dragged her into the courtyard, then held her so she couldn’t move, couldn’t escape—not without using her magic.

“I can’t stay here,” she said. “If I can’t use my magic, I’m helpless.”

Kerr frowned.

Heather continued, “And this is no place to be helpless.”

Kerr’s thumbs pressed against her palms again and for an instant she thought he was going to drop her hands and turn away, deny her plea for help as he had before.

“You’re right. It isn’t,” he said instead.

The air seemed to thicken around them, pushing them together. She took a step forward, until Kerr had to lower his hands, his grip on hers changing, softening.

Heather didn’t want to ask him for help again, didn’t want to hear him say no. She just wanted to be with him, to feel for once support from another living being.

“I won’t let them hurt you,” he murmured, scanning her face.

“You won’t?” She thought about the troll, then the elf. Kerr might want to protect her, but he couldn’t. “I have to be able to take care of myself,” she replied. It wasn’t an accusation, just a fact. A cold, hard fact.

“I want…” Kerr started, but then stopped, his lips pressing against themselves as if he’d been about to say something he knew he shouldn’t.

“What do you want?” As soon as the words left her lips, Heather realized how they sounded—suggestive, inviting. An image of Arn smiling with approval flitted into her mind. She pulled back—or started to—but Kerr stopped her, his hands moving from hers to her hips, holding her in place.

“Too much, I’m afraid.”

Then he lowered his face and captured her lips with his.

K err pulled Heather toward him. She looked soft and vulnerable, and after seeing her strange behavior in the courtyard he’d been so…scared. He let the thought solidify in his head. Scared. He’d been afraid that something had happened to the witch, something he couldn’t reverse, something he was ultimately responsible for because he’d insisted she would survive on her own.

What if she couldn’t survive here? What if her only chance was to escape?

Kerr blocked the guilt gnawing at his conscience. He couldn’t think that way. She had to be able to survive because if she couldn’t…if he had to choose between her and the rogues he’d led here…

Heather let out a sigh and opened her lips beneath his. And Kerr forgot—the rogues, his increasingly warring loyalties—everything except the woman in his arms.

 

Kerr’s lips grew harder, more demanding, and Heather responded. She wrapped her arms around his waist, shoved them up the length of his back. The muscles there caught her off guard. Kerr looked athletic, but not obviously so—more the wild wolf than the human-bred fighting dog, she realized. Lean and long, but strong. She ran her fingers down the firm surface of his back, gasped as his fingers kneaded her buttocks in return.

Things were going fast, too fast, as if each of them had been starving for this, dying for the chance to share a moment of safety and security with another human.

No, not just any human…Heather had needed Kerr.

Kerr, who Arn had told her to seduce. She pulled her lips free and stared up into Kerr’s face. His eyes were questioning, but he said nothing, just waited.

She could tell him now—should tell him—but…he would walk away and, more important, he’d look at her with disgust. Kerr was so noble, so willing to sacrifice himself for a cause he believed in. He would never understand the calculating move that had brought her here today. Her capture hadn’t been planned, but it might as well have been. It had certainly worked to her favor.

She took a breath, feeling it shudder in and out of her lungs. She was at a crossroads. She could tell Kerr exactly why she’d come to him, or she could continue as they were going. Take advantage of what was happening right now.

“Heather?” Kerr’s brows lowered. His hands moved as if to drop from her hips.

Heather splayed her fingers over the muscles of his back, tilted her face to his, and whispered, “Kiss me. Help me forget where I am….” Who I am…just for a while, she finished to herself.

His face serious, his eyes solemn, Kerr ran a finger down her cheek. “I think…I want…you.” Then he shoved his fingers into her hair, pushing it away from her face and captured her lips with his.

Heather pulled him tight to her body, forgot about why she’d come, what she’d hoped to accomplish and just reveled in being wanted and cared for, and pretended maybe, just maybe, she was loved.

 

Heather fell against Kerr’s chest. Fell, as if she’d been waiting for him to catch her. It made Kerr want to pick her up, cradle her against his chest, protect her. Instead he pulled her even closer, dug his fingers into her hair and held her there as if he was afraid she could shimmer and disappear.

Everything about her teased him. Her smell was all female and inexplicably floral as if she hadn’t been living in the coarse conditions of Arn’s tavern for the last few days. Her skin was smooth and soft, like the silk tunics the Jagers wore, so different from the rough wool shirts they had given him. Her touch was light, but eager, her fingers dancing over his back almost shyly, then grabbing him if he moved—as if she shared his fear, was afraid he would leave her.

He wasn’t leaving. Wasn’t going anywhere. Jager Headquarters could crumble around them, and Kerr wouldn’t part from this female, not now.

He pulled her arms free from his waist and slipped them around his neck. Her lips never left his. Her hair spilled back over her shoulders; the smell of flowers grew stronger—roses. He recognized the scent from his childhood, sneaking into the neighbor’s garden to spy on the animals the reclusive man had kept trapped there—rabbits and pigeons in tiny hutches, longing to be free. One day he’d helped them, unlatched their cages and waited, but they didn’t leave. They just sat there staring back at him, until the neighbor came, and chased him back home. It was the first time he realized wanting to save something wasn’t enough—didn’t always mean you could.

“Kerr?” Heather looked up at him, a question on her face.

He shook off the memory. He wasn’t six. If Heather needed saving, if the rogues needed saving, he’d figure out a way. He wouldn’t let them down, none of them.

He stopped Heather’s next question with his lips, slipped his tongue past her teeth, and stroked the inside of her mouth. She began to squirm, her pelvis pressing against his thigh. He moved forward until the tiny bed was directly behind her. Together they fell until he was braced above her, his bent arm keeping his weight from crushing her.

She arched her back, pressing against him again, making it clear she didn’t want his caution. Her hand moved from his neck to the small of his back. She pressed against his skin, obviously telling him to move faster, forget his cares.

With an exhale of air, he listened, lowering his body and rolling at the same time so Heather lay on top of him, every inch of her pressed into him. He ran his hands up her back, like she had done to his. Her shirt rode up with their movement and his palms grazed bare skin.

She placed her hands on his chest and curled her fingers into his shirt, clung there for a moment. Her lips pulled free of his and she just lay still, panting into his mouth. He wondered what she was thinking, if she was regretting what they had done so far, wanted to stop. Her fingers relaxed, then tightened in one quick move into fists, his shirt held firmly in her grasp.

“Do you like me?” she murmured against his mouth. “Just a little?”

The question was so unexpected he couldn’t reply. He opened his mouth, but no sound came forth.

“Shhh.” She pressed two fingers to his lips. “Doesn’t matter. Don’t answer.” Then she shifted until his earlobe was caught between her teeth, and her question was forgotten. Everything but Heather was forgotten.

 

Why had she asked that? Heather wanted to pound her forehead against Kerr’s chin, let a torrent of frustrated tears pour out, but she didn’t. She forced the moment of self-doubt away. Told herself it didn’t matter. She needed…this moment…this feeling. Needed it right now as much as she needed air, and not because afterward Kerr might feel beholden to help her. No, because she needed to feel important, wanted just for a while.

Kerr shifted beneath her. Worried he might develop doubts, she dropped her head and again tugged at his earlobe with her teeth. His body tightened. His hands kneaded her back, traced down her spine to the top of the loose cotton pants she’d found in a pile beside her pallet at Arn’s. They were anything but seductive, a fact she’d regretted this morning when she’d pulled them on, but now realizing how easily she could pull them off, she thanked whoever had left them behind, and Arn for leaving them beside her while she slept.

As if reading her thoughts, Kerr’s fingers moved to the tie at her waist. The knot undone, her pants fell free, too, baring her sole pair of panties, pretty though it didn’t matter. In seconds her panties, pants and tunic all lay in a pile by the bed.

“Now you,” she whispered, almost clawing at Kerr’s clothes. The need inside her was building, her blood pounding through her veins.

Within seconds Kerr was naked, too, his clothing thrown about the room with no care or thought.

Heather pulled in a breath and ran her hand down his chest. His skin was golden, his body firm. The muscles she’d felt in his back couldn’t be as impressive as what she could see now on his chest. Every inch of him was toned, athletic. She lowered her face, let her hair trail over her shoulder, down his torso.

At his pelvis she stopped, fascinated by muscle—where his hips and stomach met. She traced each bump with her tongue, dropping lower until she could feel Kerr tense, until his erection became tangled in her hair.

Tentatively, she lowered her face again, darted out her tongue and caressed the velvety tip of his sex.

Kerr’s fingers dug into the blanket beneath them, but he didn’t touch her, try to stop her or push her to do more.

Emboldened, she opened her lips and let them slide over the sensitive skin, tasted the salty pearl of moisture that clung there.

Kerr’s body tightened again, his hips lifting from the bed. Heather traced one finger down his shaft, to the sacs below. Gently she weighed them in her hand. Kerr jerked again, this time a surge of breath escaping his lungs, and he bent forward, grabbed her under the arms and pulled her body onto his, until she straddled him.

“Enough,” he murmured. His lips traveled over her face and neck. The stubble of his beard grazing against Heather’s skin sharpened her need, until she could wait no longer.

As his lips found hers, she lifted her hips and lowered her hand to guide his erection. The tip slipped inside and Heather sucked in a breath of her own. Tight. So tight. She wiggled her hips, let her body adjust, stretch, then inch by inch she lowered herself until she sat flat against Kerr’s pelvis, his erection fully inside her.

For a second she stared at him. His gaze was on her, too. The moment beat with intensity, like her heart, pounding inside her chest. Kerr reached out to cup her breasts with his hands. She lifted her hips and together their bodies began to move. Up and down.

With each slide, Heather felt stronger, safer, more confident.

Kerr made tiny circles around her nipples with his thumbs. She arched her back, pushing her breasts toward him. Deep inside, she could feel the pressure begin to build. Gasps fell from her lips. Her fingernails scraped over his chest, as she struggled to maintain control, to keep the rhythm going for as long as she could.

Then she knew she couldn’t last any longer, could feel her body curling, ready to spin out of control. Her gaze found Kerr’s and saw the same need there. Their speed increased; beads of sweat covered her back, breasts, his chest. She gasped and threw back her head; her breasts pushed fully into Kerr’s hands.

Then he lifted her, helped her in her last surge of movement, until both of them quivered, her body tightening around his, squeezing, never wanting to let go.

 

Heather collapsed onto Kerr’s chest. Her skin stuck to his, her breath blew across his chest, and the smell of roses, garm and sex filled his small room.

He ran his hand down her hair, gathering it up and letting it trail through his fingers.

Everything was perfect.

Except. His hand froze, his fingers closing, ensnaring the silken hair between them.

Heather was still a witch. She was still trapped in Gunngar. And Kerr still had his fellow rogues to find and rescue.

He couldn’t take her away from here, not yet. His hand began to shake, the hair between his fingers to bite into his skin. He closed his eyes and tried to calm the part of his brain that screamed at the conflict.

The rogues were males, used to hard lives, to fighting to survive. He could leave for a while, take Heather to the portal, get her through, then come back.

Except if he did—if he left—Marina would know, her spies would find out someone had opened the portal and there would be only one suspect: Kerr.

What would happen to the rogues then?

He didn’t have to ponder the question. He knew what Marina would do, the same thing she would do if she discovered Heather was a witch. Kill them, kill Heather, without a flicker of guilt or doubt.

“How’re you doing?” Heather glanced up at him, her brown eyes uncertain.

“Good.” Kerr opened his fingers and dropped his hand, trying to hide the turmoil inside him with a smile and a light squeeze of his arm around her shoulders.

“Me, too.” Heather spoke the words, but her gaze flickered as she did, wandering from his face to a spot on the wall, then back, and back again.

Kerr sat up, dragging her with him. “The Jager did hurt you.” He pulled her toward him, between his legs. She curled her knees toward her chest and stared at him, her hair falling forward, partially hiding her face.

He skimmed her back with his palm. Her skin, still sticky from the last frenzied moments of their lovemaking, was smooth and unmarred.

“No. I’m fine.” She looked up, but quickly lowered her gaze to study a hole in the blanket. She curled her toe into the opening, then let out a breath. “I mean I’m fine now, but…” She inhaled loudly, then whipped her head around to stare at him. “Will you take me to the portal?”

The portal? Kerr dropped his hand from her back, for a second thinking she had somehow read his mind.

“I…” Kerr paused. This didn’t seem like your normal post-sex chat. Suspicion clouded his mind. “You didn’t…What brought you to Jager Headquarters today? You know it’s dangerous here for you. You should stay at Arn’s.”

“Arn doesn’t want me around. He wants me to leave. It was his idea that I—” She bit off the last word and dropped her forehead to her knees.

Kerr stood. “His idea you what?”

“Nothing.” Heather stood, too, started pulling on her clothes. “I’m fine. You’re fine. The world is fine and nothing has changed. This…” She motioned to her naked body, almost with disgust. “…changed nothing.”

A pain pierced Kerr. He grabbed Heather by the arm. “What? What was this…” He nodded from his body to hers. “…supposed to change?”

“Nothing. Just let me go. I made a mistake. It’s happened before.” She jerked on her pants.

Kerr picked up her tunic, bunched the material in his fist.

Heather grabbed the shirt, yanking it from his hand. After pulling it on over her head, she headed for the door. “Just forget it. Forget me. I’ll survive somehow. I always have.” Then she flung open the door and rushed down the hallway.

Kerr didn’t follow.

 

Heather ran blindly down the mazelike halls of Jager Headquarters. Her hair, mussed from her lovemaking with Kerr, clung to her face, impeding her view, but she didn’t brush it away. She didn’t want to see, didn’t want to be seen.

She wanted to find a corner and curl up, hide. Wait for everything to be better—but it wouldn’t. She’d done what Arn had asked her to do: seduced Kerr, or at least had sex with him.

She’d given Kerr all she had left to give, and what had it gotten her—nothing.

Nothing except suspicion. She’d seen it in his eyes. He’d realized she’d planned their encounter, right down to wearing the only pair of underwear she owned, the only thing that made her feel pretty in this dirty, crowded land.

Heather stumbled into a wall and knocked against a table as she stepped back and sent a brass planter tumbling toward the floor. She grabbed for it, but another hand snatched it mid-air.

The elf, the stocky one who had been standing next to Kerr earlier by the window, the one the elf who had held her had been taunting, twirled the planter on one finger like a Harlem Globetrotters all-star, then slid it back onto the table.

“Human?” he asked. He tilted his head. His eyes were dark green like an ancient pine forest, and his hair sable. He didn’t look like the other elves, she realized. He was taller, thicker, but not fat—just carried more muscle than she was used to seeing on Jagers.

“You don’t smell human.” He tilted his nose and sniffed.

Heather’s eyes narrowed. She’d heard a lot of elfin agility and even magic, but nothing of them having a capability to smell out different beings. Besides, she knew when she was being taunted, she’d had enough experience with it. Being a chubby foster child moved from one school to another had taught her that.

“And you…” She inhaled sharply. “…don’t smell elfin.” She’d taken a shot, based on his bullying attitude and different appearance, that he was at least part human himself. Another thing she’d learned early on, the foster father who yelled the loudest about sex outside marriage was also the one who trapped her in a corner, his hands somehow finding their way to her young breasts.

He straightened. “You can’t—” At her cocked brow, he snapped his mouth shut. “Are you human? Or something else? I won’t tell anyone.”

Like Heather believed that. “More human than you,” she replied. Since witches weren’t a separate type of beings like garm or elves, her answer was completely true. Any being could actually be a witch, too, just happened that most were human. Heather was no student of genetics, but she assumed it had something to do with recessive something or others.

Most beings didn’t seem to realize this though. Happily the male in front of her didn’t. He nodded. “We don’t get many humans here. I don’t know why.”

“Garm control the portals in the human world. They don’t tend to let people just wander through.” She folded her arms over her chest. This conversation was getting old. She didn’t have time to spend educating some half-breed elf.

Her mind drifted to Arn’s tavern, what awaited her there—nothing.

On second thought, she had plenty of time, but that didn’t mean she wanted to spend it here. “I need to go,” she said.

“To where?” The stocky elf stepped forward, but Heather didn’t feel threatened.

“Not here,” she replied. How she wished that were true, after her interlude with Kerr, she wanted more than ever to escape the big “here”—Gunngar.

“You were with the garm, weren’t you?” The elf pursed his lips, Heather couldn’t tell whether in disapproval or not. “So, he isn’t interested in Marina.” The last he mumbled to himself.

“Marina?” Heather’s gaze, which had wandered to the passageway behind him, shot back to his face.

The elf smiled, a smirk, that made Heather want to slap him. “He’s been hanging around her a lot, watching her. I thought he was interested, but if he has you…” His eyes narrowed. “Of course, that doesn’t mean the first isn’t true. He is a wolf.”

“What do you mean—” It was Heather’s turn to take a step forward. A loud noise like a gong, the clang reverberating through the building, cut her off.

The elf turned to the sound, then spun back. “Hurry home, human. The streets of Gunngar are even less safe today than usual….” He turned to leave, but looked back over his shoulder. “Especially for witches. If you know any, you might want to warn them.” His gaze unreadable, he slapped a button on the wall nearby, murmured, “Gal, on my way.” Then took off down the hall in a jog.

 

Heather found her way back to the courtyard unaided and without running into any other Jagers. The area was empty. As were the streets around it—not a horse, not an elf, not even one of the thousands of peddlers that seemed to multiply daily.

Nothing moved, not even the air.

The air. Heather breathed in. Smoke. Something was burning. Was that where everyone had gone? To escape a fire?

Kerr. Her first thought was to rush back inside the building she had left and warn the garm, to tell him he had to find where his fellow rogues were being kept, that the building was in flames, but then she realized if the fire was here, elves would be, too, scurrying around trying to save themselves.

Still her heart beat faster. Something was wrong. Dread building inside her, she followed the smell of smoke.

She didn’t have to travel far. After two blocks the noise began to build. She was approaching the city’s center. She had avoided the area under Arn’s advisement, but now her feet moved one in front of the other as if someone was moving them for her. She couldn’t stop, couldn’t turn back even if she tried—and she didn’t.

Two more blocks and the smoke engulfed her—smoke, heat and noise. The main square was packed with horses, peddler’s carts and bodies. The mood of the crowd was half festival, half hushed fear.

Again some force moved Heather forward, even with Arn’s words of warning to keep out of sight, not drawing others’ attention. She elbowed her way to the front of the crowd. What she saw stopped her, frozen in her tracks.

A woman, her face streaked with tears, her clothes torn to rags that hung from her body, stood tied to a pyre. A few feet away standing on top of a stone pillar was the Jager leader, Marina.

And in her hand was a blazing torch.

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K err slapped both palms against the cold wall of his cell-like room. Damn Heather for confusing him. Damn himself for allowing her to.

Had she come here to seduce him? To buy his allegiance with her body, so he’d forget the rogues who trusted in him? Leave them to die? Could she be that selfish?

But an inner voice said, What other choice had you left her? She was alone, hunted.

What else could she do?

Be honest? Tell him how desperate she was?

Indignation built as he considered that. Then the voice returned, laughing this time. Like she hadn’t tried?

With a roar, he smashed both fists into the wall. A chunk of stone fell to the ground. He stood there panting, waiting for one of the Jagers he now suspected spied on him, to come, see what he was doing so they could report back to Marina, but no one did.

He kicked the hunk of rock out of his way and strode to the doorway, almost hoping one of the Jagers would arrive. He wanted to smash something that would hit back, but the halls were silent.

The halls of Jager Headquarters were never silent.

He walked through the building, quickly at first, then with growing trepidation. The place was completely empty.

What could empty Jager Headquarters so thoroughly?

Nothing.

Unless…they’d found a witch.

 

Marina held out the torch. The woman tied to the pyre twisted away from the flame.

“Add fuel,” Marina called, her eyes flat, as if she was ordering the elf to throw another log on a campfire to roast marshmallows, not a living woman.

“What…What’s happening? What did she do?” Heather spun, her hands reaching for the crowd around her, her gaze sliding over a mosaic of faces. No one made eye contact. They all seemed focused on Marina and the woman on the pyre, but none made a move to help her.

Finally, she grasped the arm of a woman who was hurrying by, herding her children in front of her, shushing them and urging them not to look back, just to move.

“What did she do?” Heather asked again.

The woman paused, her eyes wild, her face creased with fear. She glanced from the children, making sure they continued their trek across the plaza, then she spoke, her voice rough and low. “Witch. They caught a witch. They’re going to burn her. It’s a warning…to the others.”

At that moment one of the children, a girl of around four, stopped and turned. Her gaze locked onto the woman about to be ignited.

“Mommy!” she yelled.

The woman Heather was speaking to jumped toward the child, her face creased with horror. After one terror-filled glance around she plucked the child up, wrapped her headscarf around the little girl’s face and mouth, and disappeared in the crowd.

Heather could hear the little girl’s cries—long after she was gone.

She turned back to the pyre, something heavy and solid settling in her chest. This couldn’t be happening. It couldn’t.

But it was. Marina lifted the torch above her head, then her voice rang out. “In warning to others—to anyone harboring a witch.” Her gaze swept over the waiting crowd, a crowd that grew quiet, and she dropped the blazing torch.

They had dowsed the wood with something, Heather realized instantly. The pyre burst into flames, even before the other Jager who stood waiting with torches of their own followed Marina’s lead. The heat hit Heather like a wall. The smoke, which when fueled only by the torches had been thick, increased to such a point for a moment that Heather could see nothing, not even the faces of the people who pressed against her. The combination—bodies shoving against her, knocking her back and forth, and the smoke billowing over them all—stole her breath.

But she fought it, refused to be pulled back with the rest of the crowd as they tried to escape the heat and smoke.

Instead she stepped forward with some insane dream that she could stop this, save the woman, ease the sobs of the little girl, which still burned through Heather’s mind.

Her hand hit wood, still solid and somehow untouched by the flames. She blinked. Tears streamed down her face, but even with that and through the smoke, she saw him—Kerr standing next to Marina doing nothing. Just watching.

Kerr saw Heather as she stumbled out of the smoke, so close to the fire her hand touched unburned wood. Every cell in his body clenched.

What was she doing? Couldn’t she see it was too late? The witch was dead. Had been almost as soon as Marina’s torch hit whatever mixture the Jager had tossed on the poor woman.

He’d arrived seconds before, thinking he could save the witch. But before he could inhale a breath, Marina had dropped her torch and where the woman had stood, there was nothing but flame: blue, hot and unforgiving. No one, nothing could survive that.

But Heather didn’t seem to realize it. His heart, which had seemed to stop beating when he’d decided only discovering a witch could so thoroughly pull the Jagers away from their lair, had started again when he’d seen Heather. But now, as her fingers brushed the wood, it seized inside his chest.

He started to shimmer. Marina, her Jagers and what they would think be damned, but before the first tingle could form, Heather slumped to the ground. Behind her stood Arn, a wooden mallet in his hand. He stooped, slung Heather over his shoulder and began knocking his way through the crowd.

Kerr’s instincts screamed at him to follow, but he knew that would be pure folly. It would only draw attention to Heather.

His glance returned to the smoldering pile that had once been a woman. Heather was safe for now. Kerr’s attention could only endanger that safety.

 

“How did it happen?” A rough yell broke through the pounding in Heather’s head. She tried to sit, but fell back onto the pallet she’d been calling home for the last few days. When the back of her head hit the mat, the pounding turned to a throb.

She ran her fingers under her hair, found a lump covered with a dry crust of blood. She jerked her hand free and stared at her fingers for confirmation. Brown smears told her she’d guessed right.

She started to sit again, this time forcing her body to obey. She and her pallet were tucked into the corner of Arn’s tavern. Someone had moved it from the closet where she normally slept. At a table a few feet away sat a motley group of men and women. She recognized one—the dwarf peddler who’d stolen her shoe right before she was attacked by the troll. He saw her staring at him and shot her a wink, his mouth widening into a gap-toothed grin.

“Your witch be awake.” He nodded toward her.

Without glancing her way, Arn yelled, “Drink what’s beside you.”

It took a second for Heather to realize he had spoken to her. Sitting on the floor next to her mat was a metal tankard. Heather lifted it up and sniffed. It smelled of mold and old wood. She started to sit the cup back down.

“Drink it,” Arn yelled again. This time he turned to look. His thick brows were lowered to the point she could barely make out his eyes beneath them and red showed under his dark complexion.

She started to argue. Her last conversation with the tavern owner had not given her reason to trust him, but as she opened her mouth, a wave of nausea caused her to fall forward. Her outstretched palms broke her fall seconds before her face collided with the hard floor.

Arn stood. “Drin—”

Heather lifted the cup. Bits of green, herbs she hoped, bobbed inside thick brown liquid. Closing her eyes, she tilted the tankard and let its contents slide down her throat.

If possible, it tasted worse than it smelled…or looked. She wiped the back of her hand across her mouth and waited for a miraculous cure. It didn’t come. Her head still ached, and her body didn’t seem to want to cooperate.

She blinked at Arn, but he seemed far away now, not fuzzy so much as distant. With a sigh, she gave up the fight and slumped against the wall beside her.

Arn snorted and turned back to his companions. Still awake, Heather tried to focus on what they were saying. She knew listening was important, that she needed to hear what was said, even though at the moment she couldn’t remember why.

“No one knows, or if they do, they aren’t saying.” A woman this time, her tone accusatory.

“We don’t run a prison,” Arn replied. Heather could tell by his voice he was angry, knew he was probably leaning forward, taking up the woman’s space.

“We don’t?” the woman asked. Bodies shifted in chairs and they were looking at Heather; she could feel it.

“She’s different.” Arn again. There was a clunk and the sound of a chair scraping over the floor, then heavy footsteps. Hands grabbed her feet and she was pulled by the ankles, until she was lying prone on the floor. Next a blanket was thrown on top of her, covering her from foot to scalp.

“She has to breathe,” the woman said, as if talking to a child.

Arn grunted. “She’ll be fine.” His footsteps led away, back to the table. “Point is, if the Jager discover the witches, eventually, they’ll discover us, and our true goal.”

Silence followed his comment, and again Heather had the eerie feeling she was being watched. She let the thought roll around in her brain, wondering why that should disturb her.

“So, what do we do with the others?” The first voice, the rough one, broke the quiet.

“Keep them hidden,” Arn said, iron in his tone. He was talking to someone specifically, but with the blanket over her face, Heather couldn’t see who.

Did it matter? Heather floated away for a second, her mind lifting from her body. Keep them hidden, that was good.

“But…” Still Arn, Heather noted with detached interest. “…if another is caught, we do nothing. We cut ties. No more trying to save anyone, except her.”

“She had child—”

“Doesn’t matter,” Arn interrupted the woman. “Nothing except getting our guest out of Gunngar matters. That’s the only way we get back our lives.”

Get back their lives. That was what Heather wanted, too. Not too much to ask. Things began to swirl again, Heather’s mind to drift.

Lives back…not too much to ask at all. She hoped they got them. With a sigh, she relaxed, let her mind float and enjoyed the feeling of not knowing what was happening, not caring…later she’d think about what she’d heard, decide if any of it mattered, but for now she just wanted to sleep.

 

Kerr had followed the Jagers back to headquarters, choosing to walk rather than shimmer. He needed the time to think. What he had seen, what had happened to that witch…

He ground his teeth together. It could have been Heather; it still could be. The Jagers jubilant with their success were tossing taunts back and forth, bragging that there were more witches out there, but not for long. The witches were slipping. They’d found one, knew their secrets now, how they’d stayed hidden so well, that it was only a matter of time before all the witches in Gunngar were dead, burned until there was nothing more than ash. Ash they’d left behind as a reminder—not a warning, but a promise.

Kerr’s stomach churned. Heather was in danger. He couldn’t deny it any longer, but the rogues…How could he forget them?

He wouldn’t. His chin snapped up as he made a decision. No more waiting. There was no time. Tonight he would get into the dungeon, learn if the rogues were there.

If they were, he’d free them and find Heather. Then together they would find the portal Heather had told him about and get the hell out of this inbred land.

 

Water splashed onto Heather’s face. Coughing and spitting, she jerked to a sit. Her head swam as if she’d just awakened after a weekend filled with college keggers.

“Wake up. You have to leave.” Arn stared at her, a dripping pitcher dangling from his hand.

Heather rubbed her eyes, then her memory returning, she pressed her fingers to the back of her head. The bump was still there, smaller, but present, as was a knot of dried blood and hair.

“C’mon.” Arn grabbed her by the wrist and jerked her to her feet. “Did you talk to the garm?”

The garm. Kerr. Heather staggered backward, memories of the prior day flooding over her. Making love to Kerr, realizing what she’d done, that it didn’t matter. Then the courtyard, the witch, the child…She glanced up, her mouth falling open, but no sound making it past her lips.

“There’s no reason to be rough,” said a woman. Heather recognized the voice…she’d been here last night, talking with Arn and the others. Heather looked up, and sucked in a breath. Not just the woman from last night, but also from yesterday, the square.

“The girl?” Heather asked, her fingers curling into her palm.

The woman smiled, but it was a weak effort. “Safe, but don’t worry about her. It’s you we have to move.”

“Enough talking. You need to go now.” Arn shoved Heather toward the door.

“But where?” Heather stopped, not sure what more to say and confused by what was happening.

“Everything’s changing. The damned Jagers got too close. We’re switching everyone, but you…” Arn stopped, pointed a thick finger in Heather’s face. “…still need to get to the garm. We’d do it ourselves, but—” He dropped his hands from her and took a step back.

“You’re afraid of him,” Heather muttered.

Arn folded his arms over his chest. “We don’t know garm. No one here does, other than you.”

Heather felt a laugh bubble to the back of her throat. Knew garm. What a lot of good that would do her.

She turned back to the woman. “The little girl and the other children, they’re witches, right? But you got them away? The Jagers don’t know—”

“You want them safe, you’ll get yourself out of Gunngar,” Arn said. “That’s the only way to bring an end to this.”

Heather frowned. “How does me—”

Again she was interrupted, this time by the woman gently taking her elbow and leading her to the door. “Her name’s Sienna. If you like, we can stop by and see her before I take you to your new home.”

“We decided,” Arn started.

The woman spun. “And we’ve done everything we can. One more visit won’t put any of us in any more danger than we already are. And,” she glanced at Heather, “it will make her feel better, right?”

Heather’s gaze shifted from Arn to the woman, then realizing the woman expected a response, she nodded.

Arn opened his mouth, but the woman continued, “And if she feels better, she’ll be more cooperative, right?”

Again Heather nodded. Sure, whatever. Wasn’t like she had a lot of choices right now. She was confused before by Arn’s erratic treatment, but now with him acting like she was the key to everyone’s salvation, she was completely dumbfounded.

Arn’s normal scowl creased his face, but he shut his mouth and let them continue.

Outside the door, Heather let out a breath.

“Can you tell me what is going on?” she asked.

The woman stopped, looked over her shoulder at the tavern, then released a breath of her own. “You don’t know?”

Heather shook her head. “Just that Arn’s part of a group—I guess you are, too—who save—”

The woman’s fingers jammed into her arm. “Forget that. Forget everything. Just concentrate on some way to get the garm to help you.” She stepped back and studied Heather. “You want to leave, don’t you?”

Heather stared at her.

Her expression must have said it all, because the woman seemed to relax. “You’re going to be staying with me. I’ve already told people you’re my cousin from the country.

“Gunngar isn’t huge, but we still have areas that aren’t very populated. We’d send you there, but we’d have no way to keep an eye on you, or get you to the portal if we figure out a way to open it.”

Again Heather nodded. All this passive agreement was beginning to get on her nerves, but she remained silent as the woman led her through the streets of Gunngar City. As they left the old dwarf region, Lena, the woman finally introduced herself, explained that she ran a bakery in a low-key area populated mainly by Svartalfar families.

“It’s probably as close to the human world as you’ll find here. I used to do fancier stuff for weddings and big parties, but there isn’t much of a market now.” She glanced at Heather, as if wondering if Heather understood what she was saying. “People don’t celebrate much in Gunngar anymore.”

Heather gave a noncommittal shrug, and Lena prattled on. The other woman seemed relieved to have someone to talk with and every step they made away from Arn’s tavern, she relaxed more. By the time they came to a halt outside a small blue house, she was almost smiling.

“Sienna is staying here,” she said. “You want to meet her?”

Heather stepped forward, eager to see the little girl, to assure herself she was safe. Lena waited for Heather to reach the door before lifting the brass knocker. The metal knocked hollowly against the wood. The knob in front of them began to turn, and Lena let out a breath.

The first real smile Heather had seen began to curve Lena’s lips, then the door flew open and a redheaded dwarf stood panting in the doorway, her eyes huge and her face streaked with tears.

“They took her. The Jagers took Sienna.”

Y ells and sounds of bodies racing through the headquarters building awoke Kerr. He’d planned to break into the dungeon last night, but the building had been bristling with energy, elves drinking and swearing, doing everything but beating their chests over their success at hunting down one lone woman, strapping her to a stake and setting her on fire.

The memory made bile rise to the back of Kerr’s throat. He spat on the stone floor, wished he could purge himself of the memory as easily.

With his first plan thwarted he’d thought to pursue his search for the rogues this morning, while the Jager slept off their drunken spree, but it was barely dawn and it seemed the elves were already up and active. Still soaring from the high of yesterday’s success, no doubt.

Kerr wanted to spit again, or better yet grab the first Jager to spin past him and shove his fist into the elf’s delicate face.

With a growl, he threw open the door of his room and flung his hand out snatching a Jager in mid-step as he attempted to race by.

“What,” Kerr pulled the elf closer, “is going on?”

The elf’s eyes darted from side to side in his face. Kerr tightened his grip on the elf’s shirt.

“Witch. Marina’s found another one. We’re riding to gather her—the witch that is. Marina wants to make a statement. Every Jager fully armed and every horse fully outfitted is to go.”

At the word witch, Kerr almost dropped the elf, but he recovered, tightening his hold instead.

“Burning. Is there to be another burning?” Something sharp and acrid swelled into the back of Kerr’s throat, not bile this time, but fear—so strong he could taste it.

The elf must have sensed the emotion surging through Kerr. He paled, making his leaf-green eyes even brighter. “Not that I heard…not…not today.” He fought to get the last words out; Kerr’s hold had tightened, pressing the material of the elf’s tunic around his throat.

With a sharp exhale, Kerr dropped him to the floor. The Jagers were going to get a witch—it could be any witch. There was no reason to think it was Heather. Under Marina’s orders, headquarters would be empty—completely empty. He couldn’t ask for a better opportunity to find and free the rogues.

He slid to the side, scowling at the elves rushing past him.

Flames, smoke, the sound of the fire crackling—he could feel it all, smell it, hear it. Not bothering to hide his anger, he slammed his fist into the stone wall.

He spun, grabbing a second elf. This one started to object, to twist like only an elf could, reach for some weapon, but Kerr shook him like a mastiff shaking a kitten.

“A horse,” he said. “I need a horse.”

He’d make sure no harm came to Heather, and God save any Jager who thought to get in his way.

 

Every horse was saddled and every Jager astride. Some were forced to ride double, but no one questioned Kerr’s right to a beast of his own. And Kerr had no choice but to ride. He had no idea where the Jagers were going, he had to follow them, ride as one of them.

They rode through Gunngar City at an impossible pace, barely giving residents time to hurry from their path.

As they rode past, Kerr caught sight of face after face, dwarves, Svartalfars, even giants hollow-eyed and with uncertainty pulling at their features.

If Marina wanted to make a statement, she’d succeeded.

Finally, after twenty minutes of a bone-jarring ride over cobblestones, the horsemen in the lead pulled their mounts to a stop outside a deserted warehouse.

Two Jagers slid from their horses, leaped onto the loading dock and began pushing against oversize metal doors. Slowly, the grooved track squealing in protest, the doors slid open. Standing on the other side was Marina, her hands on her hips and an approving smile on her lips.

“Good. No one could have missed you. They’ll be tossing witches under hooves rather than risk being the next to be taken.” Glancing back over her shoulder, she motioned to someone. Another Jager, the half elf Gal, Kerr realized, stepped forward. Behind him, tied in some type of metal rope, were two small forms. He tugged them forward, into the light. The smallest was covered in a blanket, but the taller was very much visible—a female dwarf—her clothing torn and her purple hair standing in clumps on her head.

She leaned forward and snapped at Marina with her teeth. The Jager leader slapped the shorter female with the back of her hand. Instead of retreating the dwarf dived forward, her short hair bristling like an angry cat’s, and her teeth gnashing wildly.

Marina hopped backward but still managed to maintain a haughty stare. “We don’t need you. It would be best for you if you remember that.”

“You planning on switching to dwarves, once you’ve killed off all the witches, you damned elf whore?” The dwarf spat.

Marina easily sidestepped the glob of spittle, but the dwarf continued. “You think the residents of Gunngar won’t catch on that sooner or later you and your ass-kissing lackeys will be turning your hunt on them? Witches, dwarves…what’s next Svartalfar?”

Marina turned to Gal. “Shove her in a box.” She pointed to a small wooden crate—metal bars formed windows on two sides. Gal and another elf approached the dwarf, but even tied as she was, they couldn’t get close without risking a nip from her teeth.

With a curse, Marina jerked the second form to her chest. The blanket fell to the ground.

A child—female and not more than five or six—stared out at the Jagers, her eyes blue and huge, her entire body quivering.

Kerr swallowed and wrapped his reins around his fist until the leather cut into his skin, until his hands began to ache, burn. Jumping into this fight wouldn’t save the girl. Even he couldn’t take on a hundred heavily armed elves. He had to wait—to be smart.

He flexed his fingers, feeling the leather stretch, letting his anger build.

 

Heather and Lena stood hidden behind the peddler’s cart Dagmar, the redheaded dwarf, had loaned them. Dagmar’s shock had quickly converted to anger. After jerking Lena and Heather into her home, she had told them what had happened.

Sienna and the other children had been on their way home from school. Dagmar and her sister, Dorrit, had gone to meet them. Just a block from the school, the “blond bitch,” as Dagmar called Marina, dropped a net over Sienna. Dorrit had tried to free her, but another elf, a half-breed according to Dagmar, jumped on her, too.

With three other children at risk Dagmar’d had no choice but to run. She’d taken the children to another safe house, and had come back to her home to devise a plan to free her sister and Sienna.

Luckily another Bevarer had seen Marina leave, towing the child and dwarf behind her horse like garbage. With his information Lena and Heather had been able to locate the warehouse where the pair had been taken.

“What’s happening?” Heather peered over the side of the cart, but Lena pushed her down.

“Stay hidden. I’m taking a huge risk bringing you here. If Arn learns that I did…” The other woman shook her head. “Just stay down.”

“Then tell me what is going on.”

“Dorrit is putting up a fight. I don’t—Surt’s sword.”

“What?” Heather bobbed to a stand, this time Lena was too focused on the action by the warehouse to notice.

“What is that?” The words were no more than a whisper, Heather was too horrified by what she saw. While one Jager—the one she’d talked to outside of Kerr’s room—held Dorrit, another approached with a metal rod extended toward the dwarf. The body of the rod was black, but the tip glowed blue, almost white.

“It’s not as bad as it looks. At least not to dwarves. It will knock her out, but not hurt her. Not much anyway.” Lena turned to glance at Heather, her lips pulled into a line. “It’s harder on witches.”

Dorrit struggled, managed to break away for a moment. She flung herself from the elevated dock and hit the ground on her feet. Still, she’d gone no more than a few steps before the elf reached her and pressed the glowing end of the rod to the back of her neck. The dwarf froze, her eyes going wide and sightless. Then with a thump she fell over, face-first into the filthy street.

Marina said something and motioned to the child. The elf turned and took an uncertain step toward Sienna. The first elf, Gal, Heather remembered the name he’d yelled into the intercom, held out a hand and faced Marina. They seemed to argue.

“What’s he doing?” Lena murmured.

Heather couldn’t reply, her body was too tense, her mind too busy sifting through any scenario that would allow her to battle the army of elves holding Sienna. Unfortunately, every one ended badly—for Sienna, for her and for every witch in Gunngar.

“Wait, isn’t that…” Lena’s fingers tightened around Heather’s arm.

Heather pulled her attention back to the scene in front of the warehouse.

Standing on the ground below Marina was Kerr.

Heather inhaled through her mouth, a sharp noise punctuating her shock.

“What will he do with her?” Lena asked.

Heather didn’t reply. She didn’t know.

Marina tilted her head and, with her fingers wrapped around the child’s wrist, sauntered forward. She tugged the child behind her, then squatted down—so even elevated on the platform she was looking into Kerr’s eyes.

Kerr stood cool, calm, his hands in his pockets and his eyes not leaving Marina’s face. She leaned closer and with her free hand ran a finger down his face.

Gal’s question about the garm’s interest in Marina flooded back to Heather. She stiffened.

The little girl began to squirm, must have made some noise. Marina turned on her, lifted her arm as if to give her a shake. The space where Kerr had stood changed to waves, then a spot behind the child did the same, but before he could fully form, Gal had already moved with elfin speed and stepped between Marina and the girl.

Kerr solidified, his body tense, his hands fisted at his sides. He moved forward, as if to grab the girl, but Gal pulled the child back.

Her eyes huge, Sienna watched the three adults arguing around her.

Kerr stepped back. Heather could see he was weighing something in his mind. She’d never seen him so tense, so coiled for action. Then with a terse nod, he dropped his hands to his sides.

Gal wrapped the child back in the blanket, which had hidden her before, leaped off the dock and carried her to a horse.

Kerr did nothing to stop him.

“He isn’t going to save her,” Lena murmured as if to herself. “For a minute, I thought…” She glanced at Heather who couldn’t meet her gaze. “I thought he’d—”

“But he didn’t. What do we do now?” Heather turned from the sight of the Jagers fleeing from the warehouse, Marina riding proudly on her white horse, Sienna draped across Gal’s saddle like a bag of corn, and Kerr right behind both of them—doing nothing, letting a child suffer, most likely die.

Did he believe the rogues were in more danger than the little girl who had already lost her mother? More worthy of saving? Or was he just too set on his path and too damn inflexible to think of trying something else?

 

Kerr stood outside Marina’s office, waiting. She kept him waiting, he knew, just to emphasize his place here—or lack of place.

“Come in.” There was a laugh in her voice as if it was Christmas morning and she already knew the biggest box under the tree was for her.

Erasing all thoughts from his face, he strode into the room.

She stood at a window, gazing out onto the streets of Gunngar City. “You think they’re afraid yet? Not insecure—really afraid. Checking under their beds at night, holding on to their children.” She turned. “They should be. I’m tired of this battle. I know there are more witches out there—that they’ve been hiding them somehow.” She tilted her head. “What powers do garm have? Besides popping in and out of places? What do you share with wolves?”

She twisted her lips. “There’s the pack thing. I’ve seen—” She cut herself off, smiled then continued, “You arrived with a pack, but then, of course, all of you separated.”

Kerr didn’t acknowledge her statement one way or the other.

“Is that common?” she asked.

Kerr lifted one brow. “Being together or separating?” Why was she discussing this? Drawing attention to her deception? It was as if she enjoyed the risk of being caught.

“Both.” She picked up silver tongs and began dropping ice cubes into a glass.

“Many garm are loners,” he replied, letting her decide where he fell in that regard.

“Like wolves.” She poured clear liquid into her glass and took a sip. “What about the rest? Do you share wolves’ other talents?”

“Speed? Team work?” Kerr prompted.

“Smell. Can you sniff out a witch, Kerr?”

Kerr just stopped his eyes from widening. Her question hadn’t been what he’d expected.

She set the drink down. “I need to find a witch. I know she’s here. She has to be. It’s been so long.” She pressed her open palm over the top of her glass. “And things have changed lately. Something is up. It has to be the witch. They’ve found her and are hiding her from me.”

She was mumbling to herself. For a moment, Kerr thought she’d forgotten him. Then she looked up, her eyes clear, intense. “My tools, the power sensors, have become almost worthless. Over the years, the Bevarers have grown stronger, more determined. Smarter. They know my tricks. But…” She took a breath. “…they don’t know garm. None of us do. If you can smell a witch, sense their power somehow, the Bevarers will have no idea how to block you—and by the time they’ve figured it out, we’ll have found the little jewel they’re hiding from me.”

Kerr had to concentrate to hide his surprise. He’d assumed he’d been called here so Marina could question him about his conduct at the warehouse, his near slip when she’d directed the elf to hit the child with whatever instrument of torment they had used on the dwarf.

“The child, is she a witch?” he asked.

Marina nodded, her expression eager. “Her mother was the witch we burned. The Bevarers tried to hide her, but I found people who would talk.”

“And the dwarf? Is she?”

Marina pulled back. “Is she?”

Kerr held out his hands. “I don’t know. I’m asking. I can’t smell magic.” But he could feel it, especially if a witch was nearby siphoning off power.

“You can’t.” Marina lowered herself into her chair, leaned back and stared at him. “Then what use are you to me?”

Kerr was wondering the same thing—wondering if he’d waited too long to make his move. Or maybe not. Maybe he’d been missing the easiest and most obvious way to get into the dungeons.

 

Dressed in a dark bodysuit Lena had loaned her, Heather crept along the outside of the Jager Headquarters’s gate. Four female dwarves and Lena followed silently behind.

What she was doing was insane. Completely insane, but she’d never felt stronger or more determined. A hate she hadn’t realized she possessed churned inside her.

The elves had taken a witch—a child. The elves who had tormented her for centuries…Heather stopped, frowned, unsure from where the thought came.

“What’s wrong?” Lena asked, pressing a hand to Heather’s back.

Heather pulled the bodysuit’s hood up over her hair and fussed with it for a second, buying time to get her mind back under control.

Stress. She was under too much stress—anyone would be having wayward thoughts, nonsensical even. Her hand drifted to the necklace hidden under the bodysuit. It seemed to throb against her palm, beating like her heart, slow, calming.

“We need to get to the gate.” The four dwarves crowded past them, their faces furrowed. While they bumped into each other, pulling tools from their bags and quietly arguing over which bar to cut first, Heather took deep breaths and reflected on why she was here.

She was here to save a child—and Dagmar’s sister. Simple as that. She wasn’t here to fulfill a centuries-old grudge against the Jager. The idea was ludicrous.

The necklace pulsed again, slower, then faster as if reading her anxiety. Strength seemed to pour into her. She pulled back her shoulders and stared at the gate and the dwarves working furiously to open it.

But…if she could take down some Jagers, especially that bitch Marina, princess of Alfheim, lapdog of the elf lords, the vile bastards who had ordered Gunngar shut down, trapping her here—

A hand gripped Heather’s shoulder. She jumped, jostling her pendant, causing it to bounce away from her skin before settling back down between her breasts. Lena leaned toward her, concern darkening her face. “Are you all right?”

“Is Marina still a princess of Alfheim?” Heather asked.

A line formed between Lena’s brows. She glanced at the dwarves. Seeing they were still occupied, she answered, “She used to be. I don’t know if you can be a princess of Alfheim and be stuck in Gunngar with the likes of us.” She made a rude noise through her lips.

“And the elf lords?”

“Bastards. Rulers of Alfheim. They are who shut us down, trapped us all here.” There was the clink of metal. Lena twisted to again stare at the dwarves, but the four kept working. After a second, Lena turned back. “Did Arn tell you all this?”

Did he? Heather knew he hadn’t, but who had?

She dropped her gaze to her hands to avoid Lena’s probing eyes. Another clink of metal, then in a hushed voice, Dagmar called, “It’s open—not much. We want it to stay hidden as long as possible, but you’re not too huge. You should make it.” She shoved Heather toward the opening.

The squeeze was tight, especially for the more buxom Lena. When it came her turn, Dagmar had to remove another bar before the larger woman could wiggle through. Once inside the courtyard, Lena and Heather dusted themselves off while the dwarves retrieved their tools.

“Elves. So haughty. Can’t work metal as well as my two-year-old.” One of the dwarves, this one blond and Dagmar’s cousin, picked up a piece of broken bar and flicked it with her thumbnail. The others grunted in agreement.

Lena gave them a disgusted look, then pulled the bar from the dwarf’s hand and dropped it onto a pile of dirt. “You said you knew how to get into the dungeon.”

The blonde scowled, but picked up her bag and began doddering along the inside of the wall. “Back here. This place was built by dwarves, long before the elves lowered themselves to move here. Dwarves and Svartalfars; that’s who Gunngar belongs to.”

The others mumbled something Heather couldn’t make out, but she didn’t think it was anything complimentary to the elves.

“My father was a digger. Worked with stone and earth. He built this dungeon—never built anything without a back door. Said dwarves always needed a back door—always someone thinking they could beat us down, just ’cause they were bigger.” The blonde stopped, turned and stared up at Heather. “You understand that?”

Heather blinked. “Not at all.”

The dwarves grunted and continued their trek. After covering another fifty feet or so, they came to a stop. Dagmar’s cousin pointed toward one stone, a square-cut cornerstone. “There.” She trotted forward. Heather and Lena crouched over and followed.

“Here?” Heather traced around the stone with her fingers. It was no more than eighteen inches wide. At last measurement—a lifetime ago when Heather had thought about buying clothing online—her hips had measured a solid thirty-eight inches around. Would she fit?

Dagmar toddled up, staring at Lena and Heather. “You’ll fit.” She kicked Heather’s booted foot. She turned her gaze on Lena. “You won’t.” Lena wasn’t heavy, but she was tall and solid. Glancing from the other woman to herself, Heather could see Dagmar was right. If either of the women were going to squeeze through that opening, it would have to be Heather.

“You can’t go alone,” Lena objected.

“She won’t be alone,” Dagmar answered. “You will.” The other dwarves pulled axes and short daggers from the bags they’d been carrying, shoved them into their boots and belts. Then they worked on pushing the cornerstone free from its lodging. Finally, Dagmar took two remaining axes from her bag and held them out to Lena. “You stand watch. Whoever gets out, take them to a safe house. Understand?”

Lena pursed her lips, perhaps at the dwarf’s domineering tone, but after a second glance at the now-open “back door” to the dungeon, she took the axes.

The first dwarf poked her feet through the opening, then disappeared. The second and third followed.

Heather leaned into the opening, listened. There was no sound, no breathing, no muffled voices and the air felt cool as if she had stuck her head into the top of a well.

She pulled back, her heart thumping. “What’s in there?” she asked.

Dagmar shrugged. “Dungeons.”

“No. I mean, where exactly does this lead?” She pointed at the opening. “How far’s the drop? I can’t hear anything. How do we know they made it?”

“They’re dwarves,” Dagmar replied. She smacked the handle of her ax against her palm in sharp even raps. “You now.”

Heather hesitated.

“Gotta get going. The elves may not be good with metal, but they’re suspicious. They’ll be making rounds—could find us.”

At mention of the elves, Heather straightened. Elves. They were inside, waiting. Her necklace warmed.

She’d waited so long. Time for some fun, some revenge.

Without another glance at Dagmar, she shoved her feet into the opening and wiggled forward. Halfway, at her hips, her body caught against the stones. She frowned, shoved her hands against the rock-littered ground, ignoring the pain of stone shards cutting into her palms and wiggled until she felt the stones that held her let go.

For a second, when her body started its free fall through the air and she realized she could see nothing and still had no idea what lay below, she panicked. But then as the fall continued—way too far and long for her to hope to survive it—she relaxed. She felt as if she were falling not through air, but water, every inch of her cushioned, protected. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the ride.

She hit, bounced up, then back down softly as if she’d been thrown on a bed. A giggle escaped her lips.

When she opened her eyes, the three dwarves were crowded around her, their daggers drawn and pointing at her.

“What’d you do?” the blonde asked.

“Do? I fell.” Heather started to rise, but a second dwarf pressed a blade against her chest, keeping her in place.

“That wasn’t falling. That was floating. And you glowed…green…not good.”

The three pressed together until they formed one short wall in front of Heather.

Silly dwarves. Like they could stop me. The thought came unbidden to Heather’s mind. Her hands warmed. She glanced down, her palms shone in the dim light—green, a sick mossy green, like rotten produce left to freeze in the crisper. She flipped her hands over and shoved them under her legs.

A noise sounded from above.

“Dagmar’s coming.”

The dwarves stepped back, leaving Heather to scramble on her hands and knees to avoid being the landing spot for the last dwarf. Ten feet from the ground, Dagmar began to roll, she landed moving, careening across the earth, then popped her legs out and jumped to a stand.

“What’s wrong?” Dagmar asked as soon as she’d righted herself and had seen the suspicion on the other dwarves’ faces.

The three gathered around her. Heather waited, her hands shoved in her back pockets, fighting the feel of power building there.

After a few seconds, Dagmar turned. “No more magic. Not till we’ve found Dorrit and Sienna.” She touched the handle of her ax, as if assuring herself it was still there. “Then, if you want, you can blast the whole place to holy hell.”

Heather’s palms began to itch. She could do that.

T he passageway from the back door to the rest of the dungeon was dark and dwarf-size. Heather fit through, but quickly discovered it was faster and more comfortable crawling on her hands and knees than trying to stay upright in a crouch.

The dwarves seemed to have forgotten whatever disturbed them when Heather had fallen…floated…to the dungeon floor. Heather hadn’t consciously called on any of her powers, and even if she would have, she wasn’t strong enough to have supported her body weight in the way they’d described. If her old mentor had been a ten on the witch-power scale, Heather at best rated a five, and she wasn’t even skilled with what power she did have.

The act they’d describe would take not only ten-level strength, but a flexibility of use that Heather had never witnessed.

The dwarves had to be mistaken, knocked their heads when they rolled to a stand and suffered some kind of mass hysteria. Heather herself must have joined them, thinking her palms were glowing green.

She scuffed one hand across the packed earth and felt nothing, not a tingle. And how could there be? She hadn’t drawn in any power, with the tiny exception of a few seconds when attacked by the troll, since arriving in Gunngar. Witches were like batteries: they stored power, they didn’t make it. Without being recharged, Heather wouldn’t have the strength to light a candle, never mind lift her own body weight.

Lost in her thoughts, Heather head-butted a small form. There was a grunt, a muffled curse, then a small hand grabbed her by the back of her pants, jerked her backward.

“We’re here,” one of the dwarves hissed in her ear.

Heather merely grunted in reply. The passageway was unlit and the dwarves had produced no method of lighting it. Fortunately, the narrow tunnel had no branch-offs and all Heather’d been required to do was follow.

“When we open this, we’ll be inside. There may be guards,” Dagmar’s cousin whispered.

There was the sound of stone sliding across dirt, and the first flicker of light leaked into the tunnel.

“It’s clear.” Dagmar spoke this time. The dwarf jumped down, out of sight. Heather heard the dwarf’s feet hit the ground. Unable to turn around in the small space, she crawled forward, braced her feet on the sides of the tunnel and pulled her upper body into the dungeon. She dangled there for a second, until Dagmar and her cousin noticed her plight, propped her body onto their shoulders and walked forward, pulling her into the room.

The remaining two dwarves quickly followed.

They were in an alcove. To the left, Heather could see steps carved out of rock that lead to a iron-bound wooden door. To their right was another passageway, with a low ceiling by human standards, but obviously not built with only dwarves in mind.

The air was dank and smelled of heated animal fat. Torches lit the hallway revealing dirt floors and stone walls. A few feet away stood a wooden stool. A half-filled cup of hot, amber liquid sat on a small table beside it. Farther down the hall were doors, lots and lots of doors.

“Where’s the guard?” Heather asked, her gaze locked on the still-steaming cup.

“Don’t know. We better move fast.”

The dwarves took off in silent jogs, their ax handles slapping against their thighs. Heather hesitated. Something wasn’t right. Someone had obviously been sitting here just seconds before their arrival. He or she couldn’t have gone far.

As if in answer to her thoughts, a door at the top of the stairs creaked.

Heather froze. The dwarves stepped back against doorways, their dark hats pulled down over their faces, daggers and axes ready in their hands.

Chains clinked against the steps. A tall, broad male form, lit from behind, so any details aside from his size were impossible to discern, shuffled forward. Behind him, a smaller slighter form…elf a voice in Heather’s mind hissed…followed.

“Wasn’t bright, attacking Gal like that. He might be a half-breed, but half elf outplays whole garm any day.” The elf waved something over an unlit torch that stuck out from the wall and it flared to life.

Heather’s lips snapped shut cutting off the hiss of air that escaped her mouth.

Shackled around the throat, waist, wrists and ankles, Kerr stared down at her.

How? Something in her chest jumped. Kerr. They couldn’t take Kerr, too. She started to move forward, out of the shadows, but his gaze—intense, knowing—stopped her.

He could see her.

She stepped back, turning her head to glance at the dwarves. Dagmar tilted her head.

Fight. They were going to fight.

Power, unfamiliar but also unmistakable, sizzled through Heather’s veins.

 

The chains were heavy around Kerr’s neck, cold, painfully so. There was magic in them, a repellant of some sort, or drain. He could feel his natural energy being pulled from him, making it hard even to shuffle his feet. He was ready to take the next step, just let his body fall, roll down the stairs, but then he’d seen her—Heather—hiding in the dark.

How did she get here? And how would he get her out alive?

She turned, looking at something out of his sight. She wasn’t alone. He stored the information, knowing he’d need it in just seconds.

The guard stepped closer and nudged Kerr toward the stairs, obviously intending for Kerr to fall.

Kerr obliged, but not, he was sure, as the guard had intended. He flung his body sideways, knocking the elf forward, sending him bouncing head then heels down the stone staircase. The torch the elf had just lit bounced, too, touching the guard’s silken tunic and setting it ablaze. Realizing the elf would land at Heather’s feet and see her if he survived, Kerr tossed himself after the falling guard, willing his body to accept each jarring hit of the steps, to keep moving as quickly as possible.

With a crash, he caught up to the elf, smacked into his slight form and sent him spinning toward the wall in front of them. He landed flat on his stomach, his hands still shackled to his waist, he pulled his legs inward and attempted to put himself upright. He had risen as far as his knees, when four small dark forms rushed at him from the passage to his left.

Small and stocky there was no mistaking that they were dwarves, or that the weapons they brandished over their heads—lowered toward him—were dwarven axes, known for cutting through anything, stone, metal…bone.

 

As Kerr rolled off the steps, onto the stone floor, Dagmar and the other dwarves rushed forward, their axes drawn.

Power tickled against Heather’s palms, taunting her to release it, but where? The elf.

Her pendant throbbed against her chest. Yes.

But…the dwarves leaped, their axes held overhead, ready to slash down and annihilate whatever lay beneath them. Kerr rolled again toward—not away from—the dwarves. They overshot, landed behind him, between him and the elf, who was beginning to stir. He propped himself on one elbow, and reached up toward a wire that dangled from the wall beside him.

“The elf,” Heather cried, her hands raising. Power pulsed from her palms, green, glowing, just as the dwarves had described. The twin streams quickly moved together into one mass, hovering. Her power seemed to wait for the elf’s notice, then as his eyes widened and his skin paled, slowly drifted lower and lower, until it covered him, pressing against him, like colored plastic, freezing his body so he couldn’t move, speak…breathe.

Heather’s lips curved into a smile.

“No magic,” Dagmar hissed. She rushed toward Heather, shoved her into a wall.

Blinking, Heather frowned at the smaller female. “He’s an elf,” she said, but her voice wasn’t her own, the accent foreign. She blinked again, stared at the shuddering mass that encased the dungeon guard.

What had she done? How had she done it?

“Stop it,” the dwarf ordered.

The elf had grown paler, his skin almost transparent. Heather licked her lips and stepped forward, nausea threatening to send her to her knees. Had she done that?

Behind her chains clinked. One of the dwarves stepped to Kerr’s side and pressed the edge of her ax against his throat, but the garm didn’t seem to notice, his gaze was fixed on Heather.

If she did it, she could stop it, right? He was an elf, one of the Jager who hunted witches, but he didn’t deserve this, did he?

He does, something inside her said, but she shoved the thought aside, instead concentrated on how she would feel knowing what she had done. If she had to kill someone to survive or to protect someone she loved, so be it, but she wouldn’t kill like this, couldn’t.

Sucking in a breath, she walked forward and pressed her palms against the elf’s trembling form. Her hands sank into the green goo. Warm and welcoming, it crept up covering her fingers, her wrists, began to journey up her arms. She started to panic and wanted to pull herself free, but she fought the urge, and slowly the mass began to recede…to disappear back inside her, she realized…until the elf’s face, throat, then chest were free. When no sign of the mass remained, she stepped back and stared down at him.

Dagmar prodded him with her boot. “They’ll have felt that. Gotta move fast now.” Then she turned, not bothering to check to see if the elf was breathing.

Heather knelt down, saw the slight up-and-down movement of his chest, and bowed her head in relief. Behind her something clanked.

She spun, saw a slash of metal as Dagmar’s cousin plowed the blade of her ax toward Kerr. The garm twirled on his back, knocking the dwarf off her feet. Instantly the other three dwarves surged toward him.

“Stop it,” Heather yelled. “Does he look dangerous?”

Dagmar leaned over Kerr’s chest, prodded his chin with the tip of her dagger, leaving a bead of blood behind. “Yes.”

“He’s not. He’s my…” Heather hesitated. Kerr watched, his eyes unreadable. “We need to free him.”

She strode toward them, but Dagmar didn’t move. “He’s Jager. I’ve seen him with them,” the dwarf replied.

Heather curled her fingers into her palms, fought the itching there. “Let him go.” Her voice was her own, familiar in accent, but strong, determined. “Now,” she added.

When the dwarf had pulled back, her lips were drawn tightly across her teeth. Heather pointed toward the unconscious guard. “He probably has keys—to the cells and the chains.” Afraid to leave Kerr alone with the dwarves, she knelt next to the fallen garm.

His eyes followed her every movement. She reached out, ready to brush a lock of hair from his face, but a sound behind her caused her to turn instead.

Dagmar’s cousin stood at Kerr’s feet, her ax raised in both hands above her head. Heather could do no more than spit out a curse before the blade split through the air and dashed toward Kerr’s bound legs.

 

The chain binding Kerr’s feet shattered like ice, tiny bits spraying him, Heather and the four female dwarves. Kerr stretched his legs, causing the length of chain that snaked up his leg, around his waist and hands, then finally over his throat to loosen. He leaped to his feet, the shackles dropping from his body.

Heather, still squatted on the ground next to where he had lain, stared up at him, shock causing her eyes to look hollow.

“She…I thought…” she stammered.

Kerr turned to the blond dwarf. “Thank you.”

Grunting, the dwarf shoved her ax into her belt. “We gotta get moving.”

After shooting Heather a disgusted glance, the dwarves trotted down the passage.

Kerr picked up the chain, and a feeling of coldness wrapped around his fist.

“It looked stronger,” Heather said, her gaze not meeting his.

“It is, magically. But I doubt there’s a metal that exists that a dwarf couldn’t manipulate—however they wanted to.”

“Magic?” Heather touched the chain with one finger, then pulled back as if singed.

“You feel it?” he asked.

She nodded, hugged herself. “It bit.”

Kerr bounced the chain against his palm, causing the bottom loop to clang against the floor. “It absorbs magic. I couldn’t shimmer.” Which explained a lot, like how the Jager were holding the rogues.

“How’d you…” Heather frowned.

Kerr let the chain coil off his hand onto the floor. “Misunderstanding.” He glanced down the hallway. The dwarves were moving from door to door, peering into each cell through dwarf-height bar-covered openings. “You’re here for the girl and the dwarf.”

Heather ran her palms down the front of her body, like she had something on them she wanted to scrub off. “Yes.”

Kerr caught her gaze, held it. “Me, too.” Then he turned on the ball of his foot and strode down the passage, passing the dwarves and moving directly to one of the last cells—the cell where Gal had told him he’d find the pair.

He stopped in front of the door. From his sleeve, he pulled the keys Gal had given him—one to open this door, the other to remove the chain the dwarf had shattered.

He’d been surprised how easy it had been to convince Gal to help him with his plan. Kerr still didn’t know if the imprisonment of the child had pushed the half elf to agree to assisting, or if it was just desire to get what Gal saw as a rival for Marina out of the way.

Kerr didn’t question him. He didn’t care about motive.

First the girl and dwarf, then the rogues. Behind Kerr on the other side of the passage, was another door—no window and bound with metal the same color as the chain.

Heather hurried up beside him, took a misstep and fell against the second door. She jumped away, rubbing her arm as she did.

“The hardware, it’s…” Her face jerked toward Kerr.

He ignored her, slid the key into the locks in front of him instead. The door swung open on hinges so silent not even Kerr with his wolf-sharp hearing could discern more than a whisper.

There was no light in the cell. The air stank of sweat and urine. Kerr stepped inside. There was movement in the back. He moved farther inside. Covered in the blanket he’d last seen wrapped cocoonlike around her body was the girl. Her face was pressed into her knees and her shoulders were shaking.

He had bent down to scoop her up when he heard a sound—snarling. He spun on his heels and stared straight into the face of the purple-haired dwarf. She charged toward him, her gaze focused on his neck and her teeth already snapping. On instinct, he shimmered.

He rematerialized behind the girl. The dwarf spun in the dirt, curses flowing from her lips, details of what she would do to him, to all the Jagers bubbling out of her like molten sulfur from Muspelheim’s floor.

Heather moved into the cell, drawing the dwarf’s attention. She charged again. A few feet from Heather her dash turned to a leap. Fingers forming claws, she was within seconds of hitting the witch.

Heather, her gaze on the girl, seemed unaware of the pending attack. With a curse, Kerr leaped, changing at the same time, trusting that his wolf form would outrace the dwarf.

He landed on her back, took her down and used his open jaws to pin her around the neck. While she bucked and spat, he kept her face pressed against the dirt.

In a flurry of noise and movement, the four other dwarves, the ones who had come with Heather, rushed into the cell. All four froze when they caught site of Kerr and the dwarf still struggling beneath him.

“Dorrit,” one murmured.

Calm her down, and I’ll let her go, he projected into their minds. The dwarves moved together, their eyes darting.

The dwarf beneath him, Dorrit, curled her short leg, managing to kick him in the haunch.

He growled, tried talking to her, but she was too far gone, too lost in her determination to escape.

While he was occupied with Dorrit, Heather was talking to the others. Finally, the blonde, the dwarf who had freed him from his chains, stepped forward. In her hand she held a small iron club, like a billy club, but shorter.

She stood in a lunge, one foot next to the downed dwarf’s head, the other behind her. “You don’t move, right?” she said, her gaze on Kerr.

Dorrit bucked again. He snarled in response.

The blonde shifted her grip on the club, then pulled back and knocked the other dwarf on the head.

Kerr waited, half expecting the adrenaline-filled Dorrit to leap up and launch herself at him or Heather again, but she just lay there, eyes closed and mouth gaping.

Slowly he opened his jaws and stepped to the side.

Two of the dwarves rushed to the back of the cell and began cooing over the child. The other pair, the blonde and a redhead, grabbed Dorrit by the wrists and began tugging her out into the hall.

Kerr waited for the dwarves to leave, before returning to the spot where his clothes, and keys, had fallen as he changed. Quickly, and without looking to see if Heather watched, he changed back and tugged on his clothing. Once he was sure the keys were secure in his pocket, he turned to face the witch and moved toward her.

She waited, her eyes huge. “What are you—” she started.

“Can you get out on your own?” he asked. When the guards had come to collect him outside Marina’s office, there had been two. But once they were sure he was under control, one had snuck off, mumbling thanks and something about owing the other elf. From the pair’s brief conversation, Kerr gathered the dungeon guards got few opportunities away from their dismal workplace, and made it a habit to cover for each other whenever possible.

However, the missing guard wouldn’t stay missing long. One of them would be expected to report back to Marina.

If he wanted to get the rogues out, he had no time to waste.

Not waiting for Heather’s reply, he placed a hand on her back and hurried her from the cell. Once in the hallway, he repeated his question.

“You have a way to escape, right?”

Her gaze rested on the metal-bound door he hoped hid the rogues. “Will you leave with them?” she asked.

Kerr exhaled through his nose. He didn’t know what he would do once the rogues were free. He hadn’t thought out anything past finding and freeing them. “Eventually,” he replied.

“What about—” Heather glanced to her right, to where the dwarves made their way back to the entrance of the dungeon.

As the dwarves reached the base of the stairs, where Kerr had first seen Heather, a streak of light broke through the darkness, then a curse, and the blond dwarf fell to her knees.

“Jagers,” she yelled. Using her club as a crutch, she wobbled back to her feet—an arrow head protruding from her back.

Arrows continued to fly, the dwarves knocking them aside with axes and blades.

Kerr tried to shimmer, to move through the door—a dangerous move without knowing what lay beyond—but the effort was wasted. As he’d suspected, the metal binding the door repelled him, forcing him to drop back into his solid form, back where he started.

He pulled the key from his pocket, prayed it would open this door, as it had the other, then moved to shove it into the lock. If the dwarves could hold off the Jagers allowing him to free the rogues…then they would have a fight.

The ping of arrows bouncing off ax heads and hitting stone echoed around them. Kerr reached out, grabbed Heather around the waist and shoved her between his body and the wall.

A dwarf yelled—he couldn’t see which one—that more Jagers were arriving. Heather shoved against him, and slipped to his side. Before he could grab her, she’d darted down the hall and grabbed a fallen dwarf by the arm. Determination radiating from her body, she tugged the small but stout being backward.

Fear that Heather might be hit and anger that she had left his protection caused Kerr to hesitate. But he knew the wisest choice was to free the rogues. He returned to his mission, started to work the key into the lock.

The dwarves yelled, and Heather screamed. He turned, sure she had been hit. His shirt clung to his side, warm, sticky, and the smell of dungeon disappeared overwhelmed by the scent of blood—his blood.

An arrow stuck out of his shoulder, impossible, strange. He grabbed it, broke off the shaft and turned back to the door, more determined than ever, only to discover he no longer held the key.

 

Heather held Dagmar in her arms. The dwarf had lost a lot of blood, Heather’s bodysuit was drenched in it, but she’d kept fighting. Heather hadn’t even realized the small female had been hit until she’d turned to the side, revealing four arrows sticking from her thighs and torso. The sight had made Heather’s stomach heave, but she’d pushed nausea aside and, when the dwarf stumbled, rushed to pull her from arrows’ range.

But the arrows kept coming. The only blessing was that the first two dwarves had made it through, into the alcove. Heather prayed they’d already made it to safety—taking Sienna with them.

Heather stared down at Dagmar, pressed her bare palm against the worst wound, tried to slow the flow of blood.

Dear God, let the others make it.

With Dagmar down, her cousin was left on her own, knocking aside arrows while trying to keep Dorrit, still unconscious, from being hit, too. At a distance her ax and short sword were of little use in attacking the Jagers, and the elves seemed to realize it. They hung back, shooting from the semi-protected area of the stone staircase.

Then suddenly the elves rushed forward, surging down the stairs. Dagmar’s cousin moved backward, rolling Dorrit toward Heather with a backward kick of her leg. Her movement was jerky but efficient, and within seconds the pair stood inches from Heather and Dagmar.

The elves, in obvious contrast to the dwarf’s choppy movements, traveled with graceful precision. One would dodge a thrust from the dwarf’s dagger while another waited to move into his place.

Anger built inside Heather, the hate she’d felt earlier returning. Damn the elves. Always thinking they were superior—that anyone not one hundred percent of their blood was less. She’d shown them once how wrong they were. She would show them again.

The thoughts weren’t Heather’s—she knew that even as she rose, as her arms lifted, but with the bleeding Dagmar rolling from her lap, she didn’t care. She would embrace anything that would bring down the elves, that might save the valiant dwarves who fought for something other than themselves.

An arrow ripped past her head. She smiled. They’d missed her. Then she saw the face of the elf behind the bow. He was smiling, but not at her…behind her…at Kerr.

She didn’t have to look. She knew what had happened—that Kerr’d been hit. Knew, too, as the elf lifted his bow a second time that he intended to strike the garm again. That he was already imagining how he’d brag over ales about killing the garm…the wolf Marina had let into their midst.

With a scream, Heather raised her arms and let the fury that had been building inside her race free. Green. Red. Blue. There was too much power for it to take on just one shade.

The first line of elves flew back, striking those who had come up behind them. Heather hit them, too, feeling the exhilaration build.

She was back. Back. Nothing could stop her.

K err started to kneel, to search for the key, but as he moved streaks of light shot across the dungeon, toward the elves. He looked up, saw an elf poised, his bow drawn, an arrow directed at him. Then, almost as quickly as the sight registered, lines of color—red, blue, green—hit the elf and every Jager standing beside him, sending them flying backward.

Heather stood, her back tense, her arms stiff in front of her, with streams of energy zipping from her palms—quantities of magic Kerr had never felt before. The air crackled with it. The hair on his arms stood straight; his clothes clung to his skin.

He forgot his quest for the key. He could do nothing but stare at the witch he thought he knew. What had happened to her? When had she grown so strong? Was it from not using her powers? Had she stored them until they exploded from her body like water from a cracking dam? Would the surge be too much for her? Would the rush continue to build until she lost control?

Beside her, one of the dwarves stumbled backward, tugging two others by the collars of their mail shirts.

They were trapped, cut off from the front of the dungeon where he had first seen them—where some secret door must exist. He pressed his hand against the metal-banded door in front of him. The rogues were in there. He knew it, but…

A harsh laugh exploded from Heather’s body. Her back arched as she threw even more power into her defense…attack…Kerr wasn’t sure which at this point…against the Jagers. The two disabled dwarves huddled against the wall. The third staggered to a stand, wounded, too, Kerr realized. She moved forward, next to Heather, her ax held in a shaking hand.

They would fight till there was no one left standing. They didn’t even glance at Kerr, or consider his help. He could continue his hunt for the key, and release the rogues. It appeared Heather could hold off the Jagers for that long, but the dwarves, the two who were slumped in the dirt, they wouldn’t make it.

His choice would cost them their lives.

He pushed himself away from the door; shimmered to where the two dwarves lay and scooped them up, tucked one under each arm. Even with her eyes blinded by blood, the redhead kicked him.

He growled, letting her know in tone, not words, he didn’t have time nor patience for misplaced bravery now. Then he covered the three steps to Heather and the final dwarf, placed a hand on each and shimmered them all to Arn’s tavern.

 

Tingles tripped over Heather’s body. She felt herself being ripped away from the dungeon, from her fight. She twisted, lashing out at whoever stopped her attack, her revenge.

Her fist collided with a palm. Power still sizzled through her arm, into her fingers, even through her closed fist, but the hand didn’t let go.

Her mind nothing but a barrage of images and emotions, she started to curse, to scream. The hand let go of her fist. She fell forward as it did, but someone gripped her by the upper arms and began to shake.

“Stop it,” a voice insisted, an angry, fed-up voice, one she recognized, loved—The thought sent her eyelids flying open. Kerr, the strain showing in his blue eyes, stared back at her.

“Naefr’s in back with Dorrit and Dagmar. Arn called a healer. He got word Heri and Fainna got Sienna out, but that’s all I know.”

Still reeling from the sudden change—from noise and adrenaline to peace and stillness, and the realization that somehow during this mess, she’d fallen for Kerr—Heather only blinked at him.

He pulled her closer, stared into her eyes. “Are you all right? What happened back there?”

Happened. What happened?

“I…we were being attacked,” she muttered, “by elves. I don’t like elves.” She frowned. She knew now she didn’t like the superior “chosen” who for millennia had been allowed to live close to the gods, who at times seemed to almost think of themselves as gods. But…how did she even know that? Before arriving in Gunngar, she had never encountered an elf, at least not a light elf. And here she’d had very little interaction with them. Sure they made up the Jagers, and that was reason enough to despise them, but this feeling like a stone in the pit of her stomach was different—older, personal.

It was hard to even describe the hate she’d felt while standing in that dungeon. She’d never hated anyone that much, not even her step-father.

Footsteps sounded behind Heather. “Can’t say I’m too fond of them myself right now.”

Kerr turned them both so they could see who had spoken.

An elf, complete with leaf-green eyes and graceful movements, padded across the floor toward him. As he grew closer, he pulled a silk drawstring bag into view. “Are you hurt?” he asked, his gaze on Heather.

The stone in her stomach swelled. She pulled in a breath, felt her eyes narrow.

He ignored the reaction and placed a cool hand on her wrist. “Pulse is slow, but I’m no expert on humans, might be normal. Were you hit?” He waited, with the quiet patience of someone used to being obeyed.

Kerr placed a hand on her back, began stroking her. She swallowed, the connection with the garm relaxing her, bringing her back…

“No.” She resisted the urge to glance at Kerr, instead keeping her gaze on the elf, trying to figure out why, even though he seemed friendly, the knot of hate still threatened to break loose.

“Well, then…” He flung the bag over his shoulder and cocked one brow. “…I’ll be going. Your friends are doing well. Banged up, but they’ll heal. As Dagmar told me, takes more than a few of my kind to do in a dwarf.” He flashed a grin and continued toward the door. His hand on the knob, he paused to look back. “Just so you know. Not all elves are Jagers. Some actually hate what is happening here as much you do.” With a tilt of his head, he swung open the door and left.

As if he sensed her tension, Kerr’s hold on her tightened. She lowered her head, studying the rise and fall of his chest. There was so much to say to him, to explain, but so much had happened since she’d last seen him. They’d made love. Then stupidly she’d asked him to take her to the portal, making him believe she’d had sex with him just to achieve that goal.

Which she had…but she hadn’t. She’d gone to him with that in mind, but once they’d been alone, once he’d shown such care for her, she’d forgotten Arn, the Jagers and the fact she was trapped in Gunngar. All she’d thought of was being with Kerr.

She’d needed to tell him that, but where to begin?

“I—” she started, but Kerr’s finger tipping her chin upward, his thumb caressing her skin, stopped her.

She let him lift her face, then held her breath as he leaned down and pressed his lips to hers.

 

Soft. Sweet. Kerr had never felt or tasted anything softer or sweeter than Heather’s kiss. Hesitant. How could the woman he’d seen blasting at the elves in the dungeon be the same woman who returned the pressure of his lips with such timidity?

He’d silenced her because he didn’t want to hear what she had to say—not yet. Right now all he wanted, needed, was to know she was all right, that the Jagers hadn’t done something to her—something that caused her rage and destroyed who she was.

He moved his hand from her chin to her hair. He loved her hair, even after her time in the dungeon it still danced around her like something alive, smelled fresh—of roses. His fingers wound into the strands and his kiss grew more urgent. The closer she was, the longer he held her, the more desperate to hold her he realized he’d become—to know she was safe.

“They didn’t hurt you?” he asked, softer than the last time he’d spoken to her, when she’d been standing trance-like long after the others had gone to the back. If the Jager or someone else had hurt her, it would be his fault. He’d let her leave him, unescorted. Let Arn knock her in the head and haul her off.

How could he have been so stupid? So blinded by his debt to the rogues that he had risked Heather?

“He helping you then?” A rough voice broke through Kerr’s thoughts like a steel wedge through butter. Arn tramped into the front room, yanking a leather apron on over his head. His expression was as dark as ever, but in his eyes there was a new light—calculating, hopeful.

Something about Arn set Kerr’s teeth on edge. He caught the growl that formed in the back of his throat, and after one last press of his lips to Heather’s, pulled his hands from her hair.

“What’s your game, Arn?” Kerr asked. He turned his body to fully face the Svartalfar. He wanted to make sure the male realized Kerr didn’t trust him.

Arn jerked the ties of the apron around his body then looped them into a bow in front. “Game? Trust me, garm. There are no games being played here.” His gaze shifted to Heather. “You going to get her out, or what?”

“He has other commitments.” Heather stepped to Kerr’s side.

Arn’s dark brows lowered. “He needs to get you out.”

“Why? Why is that so important to you?” Heather glided forward. Her voice was soft, but there was nothing meek in her posture.

Arn twisted his lips to the side. “You still wearing the stone?”

When Heather didn’t reply, Arn continued, “Naefr said you spun some magic back there. That true?”

Heather moved, as if to look over her shoulder at Kerr, but she stood still, stayed silent.

“That stone, it’s all that will keep you safe here. You know that, right?” Seeming to accept that Heather wouldn’t reply, Arn went on. “How’d it feel? When you used the magic? Same as always, or different?” He leaned forward, not a lot but enough that Kerr could sense his interest in Heather’s answer wasn’t casual. “Naefr said you were pretty impressive. That you seemed lost in it.”

Kerr moved to stand next to Heather and placed his fingers on her back with just enough pressure to let her know he was there beside her, with her. “She did what she had to do,” he answered. He wasn’t sure that was true. The power he had witnessed Heather unleashing in the dungeon was foreign to him, unbelievable, but Kerr had been wrapped up in his own mission, unaware that Heather and the dwarves were losing their battle until it was almost lost. If Heather hadn’t nearly exploded with power, what would have happened? Would he have lost her?

His mind shifted to the other elf—the guard who had brought him to the dungeon—to Heather nearly smothering him with that strange glistening sludge, to her sucking it back up into her body.

How had she done that?

Arn took another step forward, completely ignoring Kerr and his response. “How did it feel?”

The muscles in Heather’s back tensed. Not waiting for her to respond, Kerr placed a hand on the dark elf’s chest. “What’s your game, Arn?” he asked again.

Arn stared down at the fingers spread open over his apron, then back up at Kerr. “I told you. No games here.”

Kerr was tired, physically and mentally, but most of all he was tired of the Svartalfar. His thumb and index finger forming a V, he stepped forward, shoving his hand tight against the dark elf’s throat and propelling him backward until the other male was pinned against the wall. “People keep asking me what powers garm have. What we can do.” He pushed again, letting his hand shove against Arn’s trachea, cutting off his air. “You want to find out, Arn?”

The dark elf’s hands flew to Kerr’s wrist. His eyes glowing white against his dark skin, he pulled, but Kerr’s grip didn’t relent. Kerr leaned in, hissing in Arn’s ear, “Tell us what you know. Tell me why you are pushing Heather.”

Arn lifted his upper lip in a snarl. Kerr didn’t move. Even dwarves and dark elves needed air at some point.

“He doesn’t trust you, Arn. I don’t trust you and I’m the person you’re supposedly trying to help. If you don’t answer, do you think he’s going to take me to the portal? Do you think you’ll get anything from him?” Heather’s voice was calm, no sign of urgency or even interest—like she was just a casual observer stating facts.

Arn’s gaze shifted between Heather and Kerr. “Down,” he choked out.

Kerr stepped back, let the tavern owner slide down the wall. One hand rubbing the base of his throat, Arn tilted his head toward a table and chairs.

Kerr waited for the Svartalfar to choose a seat, then positioned the remaining two chairs so Heather was as far away from Arn as possible, and so Kerr could reach both her and the dark elf.

Once they were seated, Arn rested his forearms on the table. “Anyone tell you about Amma?” he asked.

Heather started, but when Kerr glanced at her she shook her head no.

Arn continued, “She was a witch—half elf, half I don’t know what else. Had two sisters, too. Don’t know what they were. Anyway, she went to Alfheim looking for family, acceptance, something like that.” Arn waved his hands as if the witch’s motivation escaped his understanding. “Guess things didn’t go too well. Guess she didn’t get the warm welcome she wanted. The elves don’t tend to be real accepting of those who aren’t one hundred percent elf…” He paused. “Light elf,” he corrected. “So, they say some ugly things, make it clear they want no part of her and throw her out of Alfheim. She didn’t take kindly to it, but light elves are arrogant. Think no one can match them for nothing. What they didn’t know is that Amma and her sisters were three bad witches—lots of power. More witch power than the elves had known existed.” He tapped his fingers on the table and studied his audience for a second. “She hooks up with her sisters. The three of them break through whatever magic the elves had spun to keep Amma out and, bam, Amma’s back.”

“What about her sisters?” Heather asked.

Arn lifted one shoulder. “Don’t know. Guess they went back to do whatever witches do. But Amma, she went straight back to her elf family, started blasting elves to tiny light bits.” He chuckled. Then as if realizing his audience wasn’t sharing his humor, he continued, “An all-out war broke out in Alfheim, land of beauty and peace. Woke the elf lords right up. They came down from their pearly palaces and interceded.”

The elf lords. Kerr hadn’t been sure they even existed. He had suspected they were just legend and lore.

“Somehow they separated Amma from her body,” Arn added.

“Separated her?” Heather’s eyes formed twin circles.

“Pulled her spirit, soul, essence, whatever you want to call it from her body. They had tried to kill her before that, but couldn’t. Then they thought if they separated her spirit from her body, they’d be able to destroy her body and be done with her. But that didn’t work, either. Don’t know if she and her sisters cooked something up to protect her or if it just had to do with her magic and the elf blood, but no matter how deep they tried to cut, her body healed, fire wouldn’t singe her, nothing worked. So they picked another path. They sent her to Gunngar and shut us down to trap her here.”

Kerr frowned. “They gave her back her body?”

“No, they put her spirit in something else,” Heather murmured, her hand resting lightly on her chest.

“That’s right.” Arn nodded. “Stuck it into some artifact and sent it into Gunngar with an elfin princess—Marina. Her job is to keep Amma contained, until the lords figure out a way to destroy either Amma’s body or her soul.”

“So, why are the Jagers hunting witches?” Kerr asked.

Arn pressed both of his hands onto the tabletop, clenched his fingers. “Because of the power. They’re afraid a witch will try and rescue Amma—that she has followers.”

“Does she?” Heather this time.

Arn’s fingers relaxed. “I’ve never met one.”

Kerr studied Arn’s face, looked for some sign he was lying or leaving something out, but the dark elf stared back at him, his face guileless.

“You’re saying the hunts, the burning of that witch, it was all done just to keep a potential group of Amma followers from developing.”

Arn pushed his chair back an inch or so from the table. The leg screeched along the floor. “That and the fact that light elves don’t respect any power but magic, and they don’t like anyone who isn’t one of them being able to use it.”

“But elves don’t use magic,” Heather said.

“Magic is all light elves have,” Arn corrected. “Sure they’re agile and quick and good to look at, but their real power is magic. They just can’t use it like a witch can. They weave it into things, make magical objects, but they can’t use it themselves—not just shoot it from their bare hands. Do you know how that eats at someone like Marina? Seeing someone she thinks of as lesser, being able to harness magic, use it raw?”

“She’s jealous,” Kerr concluded.

“Damn straight she is. It gnaws at her. You can see it in her eyes. And besides, the elf lords sent her here, told her she was in charge. How’s an elfin princess supposed to amuse herself?” Arn laughed again.

Something about the sound made Kerr reach over and grab Heather’s hand.

She didn’t look up and didn’t pull her hand away, either. “So, what about me? Why’s it so important you get me or any of the witches out?”

Arn looked up, his eyes hard, like chips of flint. “You think we enjoy watching witches burn? Hiding their orphans so the same doesn’t happen to them?”

Heather’s fingers curled into Kerr’s. He could feel her nails cutting into his skin. “No, of course not, but why me? Why have you been pushing me so hard to get myself out?”

Arn flicked his gaze to Kerr, then back at Heather. “You know him. He’s the biggest hope we’ve had. The only hope to save the witches.”

Heather pulled her hand from Kerr’s, tucked it into her lap. He could tell there was something she didn’t like about Arn’s answer, but couldn’t guess for sure what.

She placed her hands back on the table, her fingers and palms flat, leaned in, her gaze catching and holding Arn’s. “Then why wouldn’t you let me meet them? Why did you insist I stay separate. That I convince Kerr to help me?” Her shoulders tensed. “There was never any mention of helping anyone else—never.”

“Just because you’re a witch like them, you think that means I trusted you? You saw what happened to Sienna’s mother. You know what’s at stake here. Once I knew you had him on our side, that he wasn’t Jager, I planned on bringing in the others. I planned on that all along.” Arn leaned back, a satisfied look on his face.

Kerr studied the dark elf, looking for some sign the Svartalfar was lying, but he sensed nothing, no nerves, no fear, nothing.

“So, you trust me now? You’ll take me to the others?” Heather leaned back against her chair, but her body remained stiff.

“Depends. What about these other ‘commitments’ you mentioned?” Arn asked.

Two pairs of dark eyes turned to Kerr.

His commitment—to the rogues, Heather had meant. Could he forget them now? Could he leave them behind while he concentrated on getting Heather and the other witches out of Gunngar? And if he did was there any hope the rogues would be here when…if he came back?

Could he face leaving them here to die?

A fter Arn and the dwarves had left to check on what had happened to the other dwarves and Sienna, Heather led Kerr to the small room off the kitchen she had been using as a bedroom of sorts. They needed to talk.

Kerr stepped into the room, a bewildered look on his face. His foot hit the edge of Heather’s pallet and he glanced up at her, his eyes darkening. “This is where you’ve been staying?” He kicked a metal bucket and moldy mop out of his way. “In this—place?” Anger drew at his features.

“I told you—” Heather started.

“Not this. You didn’t tell me this. I thought you didn’t have—” He bit off the rest of his reply and turned his back to her. There was a slight shake in his shoulders. He shoved his hands in his pockets, knocked a stack of dirty towels across the room with the side of his foot.

“What, that I was missing my four-poster bed?” Heather bent to gather up the towels and to hide the annoyance that drove into her at his words. Her fingers touched cold damp cloth, her movements releasing the smell of mildew. Memories of her childhood, of the room she’d slept in then, small with a leaky roof and a mattress that held the prior owner’s indentation from before her mother retrieved the bedding from the curb where it had been dumped.

She stood, her shoulder blades snapping backward. “This isn’t that different from how I lived as a child. In some ways it’s better—” She clicked her teeth together, blocking the rest of her sentence, blocking the memories of what had happened to her as a child, in her home, in her room, in the one place she was supposed to be safe.

She wadded the towels up and tossed them on the floor. Safe. She should have given up on that concept a long time ago. Nothing she did could ever keep her safe. She must have been marked at birth—don’t let this one get too strong, don’t let her start to believe in herself.

With the back of her hands, she scrubbed at her eyes.

Fingers, firm and cool, pulled her hands away from her face. Kerr grasped the base of her hands, rubbed his thumbs over the sensitive skin of her wrists.

“I’m sorry. I’ve just thought of you as…”

“Privileged? I guess I learned how to fake it. I got tired of being the pathetic little poor girl by the time I was seven. Poor little girls aren’t treated that nicely. Much better to walk around like you belong, like you’re one of them.” She turned, yanked her hands from his, faced the wall and forced her breathing to slow, her mind to clear. She sucked in a breath through open lips, let it shudder through her body, then back out. With one last huff out, she continued, “Sorry. None of that matters. None of it’s important right now.” She started to twist, a counterfeit smile on her lips, but hands caught her shoulders, began to rub.

She tried to stay stiff, to deny the need to relax back against Kerr, to feel his strength rather than fake her own, but it was a battle lost even before he pressed a gentle kiss against her neck—before he murmured, “It is important. You’re important.”

She sagged backward, her buttocks pressing against him. He wrapped his arms around her, pulled her close until his chin rested on her shoulder. “I don’t want you here…in this place. When I told you you’d survive, I didn’t know.” Tiny stubbles on his face brushed against her neck. It should have hurt, should have made her pull away, but instead a shiver danced down her spine—a delicious shiver, a sensation she never wanted to end.

But something wouldn’t let her take the comfort he was offering, not without admitting what she had done—or intended to do. She licked her lips, tried to pull away, but Kerr wouldn’t let her, his arm across her waist held her still, against him. She placed her hands on his forearms, not trying to loosen his hold, just to let him know she had something to say. He squeezed her once around the middle, but when she started to talk, he didn’t interrupt, didn’t pull her any closer, didn’t continue the up-and-down movement of his chin against her neck. He just stood still and listened.

“That last time…in your room…I want you to know I went there—” She stopped. It was so hard to say what she had to say.

“Because Arn sent you?” Kerr murmured.

With him pressed against her back, she couldn’t read his face, couldn’t tell what he was thinking. She was glad. No matter what, she had to tell him the truth—all of it.

She nodded. “I was desperate. Gunngar scares me. I haven’t felt so helpless in years, not since I was a child.” Kerr moved behind her, but she hurried on, blocking any response he might have. “When I was in the human world, working with the garm, when everything went to hell, I thought I was afraid, but I’d forgotten what real fear is. What it’s like to have no control over your own destiny. To be completely at the mercy of someone else—people, beings,” she corrected, “who you don’t trust. Who you can’t trust.”

She took a deep breath. “I was willing, or thought I was, to do anything to escape, to convince you to help me escape. So, that day I did what Arn suggested. I walked to Jager Headquarters, to you, to…seduce you.” She paused just a second, waited for a response, but Kerr remained motionless. “But then, after the elves grabbed me, and you came to my aid, I forgot why I’d come. My plan disappeared.”

Kerr pulled back. His arm was still around her waist, but she could feel air now separating their bodies. She bent her neck, rested her chin on her chest. He didn’t believe her. How could he?

“And the rogues? What did you think about them?” he asked, his voice low, paced, like he was weighing each word.

Her eyes rose when she heard his voice, but she swallowed the second of elation and forced herself to continue as she had begun—honestly. “I didn’t. All I thought about was myself.”

Kerr dropped his arm. “Selfish?” Then he moved close again. She could feel his body behind her, even though no part of him was touching her. “Or smart? How could I blame you for wanting to leave Gunngar?”

She spun so she faced him. “…I tried to use you. I tried to make you choose me over the rogues, even though I knew they were important to you, and in danger, too.”

He reached out one finger, stroked her hair. “I saw what the Jagers did to that witch. Do you think I don’t understand why you wouldn’t want that to happen to you? Do you not understand that I wouldn’t want that to happen to you?”

“So, you forgive me?”

Kerr laughed, his eyes incredulous. “Do you forgive me? You came to me asking for help and I brushed you aside. I was too damn focused on what I thought needed to be done and turned away from every other truth.”

Tears came to Heather’s eyes. She blinked them away, smiled. “What do we do now? You can’t leave the rogues. I know that.”

“And we can’t leave the witches,” Kerr added.

We. He’d said we. Warmth washed over Heather.

“We’ll figure it out. Someway we’ll get the witches, the rogues and you out of Gunngar.”

“And you,” Heather added, searching his face. She wouldn’t let him sacrifice himself.

“And me.” Kerr grabbed her hands and laced his fingers through hers, pulled them down to their sides. “But right now, I don’t want to think about that. Right now, I don’t want to think at all.”

He stepped closer.

Her heart fluttering, Heather tilted her face to his. “We’re okay?”

He lowered his face until his lips hovered above hers. “We’re better than okay.”

 

She thought he should be angry. Maybe he should be, but after seeing that witch burned, realizing how easily it could have been Heather, nothing except knowing she was safe, keeping her safe mattered.

With a sigh, Kerr gave up sorting any of it out and pulled her into his arms.

She was soft against him, her curves molding to his body. He ran his hands down her back, felt the strength of her muscles there—hidden like much of her strength. His hands traveled lower. The formfitting bodysuit she wore left nothing hidden. His hands traveled from the taper of her waist to the flare of her hips.

She gasped, pushed against him, until her breasts flattened against his chest. He could feel something else there, too—hard and rounded—that jabbed into his flesh. It set him back for a second, like a hand shoving against his sternum, but Heather squirmed, brushing against his swelling erection, and he was instantly lost in what was happening between them.

He caught her lips with his own. She responded with little bites, snagged his lower lip between her teeth, then freed it quickly, as if afraid she’d gone too far. He sucked her lip into his mouth, released it, then brushed his lips along the seam of hers. Her mouth parted and he slipped his tongue inside. She met him feeling shy, then bold.

He almost groaned with the pleasure of sensing her so alive and strong, battling then succumbing. The two of them taking turns playing aggressor and resister.

It was a game Kerr had never played. He’d never battled with a female as an equal, never given up control, not even for a few seconds.

He cupped her buttocks, felt the muscles there as she slipped her thigh up, wrapping it around his waist, and pulled him even closer, until her groin rubbed against his, until his erection throbbed and he doubted how much longer he could control the need to be inside her.

“Touch me,” she urged, pulling his hand from her hip, sliding it up her body toward her breasts.

Her breasts were full, heavy and the bodysuit he’d admired just seconds earlier got in the way of him fully feeling them. He pulled the material, letting it snap against her skin. She gasped, pulled his mouth back to hers and thrust her tongue inside.

He groaned, found her nipples under the cloth, and rolled his thumb over the growing nib. She pulled her face away and trailed kisses down his neck, blew on the now-wet skin.

His erection jerked, and he grabbed her nipples between his thumb and index finger, squeezed and pulled until she also jerked, her back arching. He took the move as an invitation, dropped his mouth to her breasts, suckled the material until it was damp, then pulled it away from her skin, letting it snap back once again.

A sharp intake of breath told him he’d chosen correctly, but he wanted more, needed more, needed to feel her skin hot with the sheen of sweat he knew their lovemaking would produce. He needed to smell her rose scent mixing with the musky smell of her sex, his, the act of them coming together.

As if reading his thoughts, she began to wiggle, pulling the neck of the bodysuit down in fevered movements. She bared first one shoulder, then the second. A silver chain hung from her neck, shining against the golden glow of her skin.

He waited, letting her pull the material down until her arms were bare. Slowly, her gaze on his face, she rolled the clingy dark cloth down until her breasts sprang free. An egg-size stone hung between them. Colors rolled through the pendant—ruby to navy to ebony. His mind barely noted its exotic colors, wondered if it sensed mood—passion—then moved on to the beauty of Heather standing before him, exposed, open…waiting for him.

Kerr could do nothing but stare for a second, take in the perfection of her breasts, the rose-puckered circles of her areolas, the nibs that stood even higher as he gazed.

She held out her hands. Her face held no deceit; no facade protected her. She just stood there, waiting, trusting. Shaking his head at how he could have known her so long without realizing how special she was, how much she meant to him, he lowered his mouth and sucked one puckered tip between his lips.

 

A frisson of electricity zinged from Heather’s breast to her core, swirled around there, tightening, causing moisture to form between her thighs. She grasped at Kerr’s shoulders, and gasped, her lips parting to let out tiny cries as she fought from falling over the edge, just from the feel of his lips on her skin.

Lost in the intensity of the sensations wrapping around her, through her, her fingers formed claws and she raked at Kerr’s back. Kerr removed his lips. She started to cry out in objection, but before the sound could form, he dragged his cheek across her already swollen nipple. The rough sandpaper of the stubble sent another tremor shooting through her.

His lips curved against her breast, and he grabbed her by the hips, stopping her from squirming, keeping her still so he could move his attention to her other breast, give it the same delectable treatment.

She moved her hands to his chest, pulled at the notched collar. The material didn’t give. Cursing Gunngar fashion, which didn’t seem to include buttons, buttons that could be yanked off, she moved her hands to his waist, began pulling up his tunic.

Air replaced Kerr’s lips, as he stepped back and jerked the tunic over his head. He started to move back, but she placed a hand on his chest, held him there, staring at him like he had stared at her, memorizing every bulge of muscle, every plane of his stomach.

Slowly, she let her hand drift, down over each swell of muscle, each indentation of his ribs. Perfect, like someone had sculpted him just for her.

He watched her, his blue eyes intense, brighter than she’d ever seen them. She skimmed her fingers over his nipples, flicked one then the other. His lids dropped, but he didn’t stop her.

Emboldened she lowered her lips and traced his nipple with her tongue, pulled back and blew softly. His hands found her hair and he pulled her back, pressed her bare chest against his, captured her lips with his mouth.

His kiss was powerful, urgent, like he was afraid she’d disappear. She clung to him, sharing his passion. Her hands wrapped around his neck, her breasts rubbed against his chest. He pulled at the bodysuit, jerking the rest of it down over her hips until her buttocks and mound were free. She wiggled, trying to move the clinging material away from her legs. She wanted to open for him, feel him inside her.

Finally, she kicked free of the bodysuit, edged one leg up over his thigh. His hand moved from her hips to her mound, parted the moist curls that waited there. She tensed, ready, past ready for his touch. He parted her folds, slid one finger along the sensitive skin, found her entrance.

She dug her fingernails into his shoulders and gave his chest a tiny nip. With his thumb caressing the nub at her center, he slipped two fingers inside her. She tightened around him, contracting with each brush of his thumb, every in and out movement of his hand.

Her hands dropped from his shoulders to his pants, to the leather ties that held them in place. With a jerk they gave. His erection sprang forward into her waiting hand.

She wrapped her hand around his shaft, felt the skin ride up and down the hard inner length of him. He mumbled something, started to bend, to lower her to the pallet at their feet, then cursed. “Not there,” he said.

“Here.” She shoved a stack of cleaning supplies out of their way and pulled him toward a wall. He followed her, scooped her up until her back was pressed against the cold plaster, her legs wrapped around his waist.

“I’ll never desert you, you know that, right?” he murmured. His sex slid between her folds, teasing her, making her want to shove herself down, onto his length. “You can trust me,” he finished.

“I know.” She pressed kisses on his neck. She’d always trusted Kerr, always known he’d keep his word, no matter the cost to himself. That was what made their coupling so unbelievable, so undeserved. She’d spent so much of her life looking out only for herself, scraping just to survive. How could someone as selfish as she was dare to believe someone as noble as Kerr cared for her?

She nibbled down Kerr’s neck to his shoulder, buried her nose into his neck. He tasted salty and smelled of the outdoors, fresh, clean, invigorating. Being this close to him, knowing he trusted her, even if she couldn’t trust herself, exhilarated her, made her want to run and scream with joy.

His hand moved from her buttocks to the tiny space between them, to his erection, which moved provocatively against her folds. He rubbed its tip along her moist crease. Electricity jolted through her…power, magic, tingling, traveling from Kerr to her.

She cried out, tried to pull back afraid somehow she would hurt him, drain him of the magic she knew as a basic part of all garm, but he ignored her objection, stilled her struggles by parting her flesh and thrusting his length inside her.

She cried out again, but this time from pleasure. He paused, waiting as her body stretched, encased him. Her head tilted and she murmured to herself, unable to keep tiny mews from escaping.

Nothing had ever felt this good, this right.

Her heart beat faster, and she ran her hands down his shoulders, slick with sweat. She moved her hips slightly, squeezed her legs, signaling it was time to go on, to move, to let the excitement she knew was coming to build, explode.

He whispered something against her neck, ran his tongue along the column of her throat. He whispered again. She tried to focus, to make out his words, but as soon as they’d been uttered, he began to move—in, out. His body hit against hers; the smell of sex, garm and the rose water she’d found hidden inside a small cupboard in her room surrounded them. His hands found her breasts and she pushed her body out, her shoulders pressing against the wall as Kerr moved inside her.

The tingle she’d felt earlier increased until she thought she would explode, but Kerr kept moving, increasing his pace. Over and over he moved. Heather could feel herself rising, as if leaving her body, spinning, pulsing. Away and aware at the same time. She stroked his hair, smoothed her hand over his skin, felt him, soaked in every movement, scent and sensation.

Then Kerr’s pace increased even more. Her core began to tighten…until she thought she could take no more. Kerr pulled her away from the wall, so he held her in his arms, his hands cupping her buttocks, and with one final move, plunged inside her. Her sex pulsed, her head tilted back and every bit of her body quivered as they found their release.

She laid her head onto his shoulder, her breaths coming in quick pants. A cloud of magic engulfed them. She could feel the icicle pricks over her skin as her pores seemed to open up to absorb it. She’d never drawn power this way—without actually initiating the pull or through her entire body. She shivered, whispered against Kerr’s bare skin, “Do you feel that?”

He nodded, moved his hands from her butt to her waist, let her body slide down his.

“Have you…?” She paused, afraid of his answer, afraid what seemed so unique, so special to her was something commonplace to him.

“I’ve never felt this before,” he murmured. “It’s like the feeling as I shimmer, but stronger.” He placed his hands on her cheeks and tilted her face to his. “It’s consuming, but in a good way. Like we’ve crawled inside each other.”

Crawled inside. She closed her eyes, realizing that’s what she wanted—that she wanted to be so close to Kerr she was inside him, hearing his thoughts, feeling his heartbeat.

Sadness overtook her. The rogues. Left alone deserted, suddenly she understood how intensely important saving them was to Kerr. She frowned—she’d always known saving the rogues was important to him, but this was different, now she felt it. Thinking of leaving them behind, knowing they trusted him…Kerr…was like a punch to the gut.

She pressed a hand to her abdomen, stared up at the garm. “You have to go back,” she said. “You have to save them.”

K err could see pain etched in Heather’s dark eyes. A feeling curled through his center…fear forced down by determination. The emotion was real, tangible, but not his own. His stomach clenched.

He’d been thinking about the rogues, how he’d have to choose between them and the witches…Heather. The thought made him sick, as though he was being torn in two. Then this new emotion had slipped into the mix—swirled with his own, creating a cocktail so strong, so hard to control he swayed on his feet.

He grabbed on to Heather, pulling her back against his body, not sure what was happening, but knowing he had to protect her. Her necklace bumped into his skin—cool, almost cold.

“You have to get them. It matters to you…to me.” She licked her lips, and he knew she was telling the truth. Freeing the rogues did matter as much to her as to him.

“But the witches, if Arn will cooperate, we could get them out first. I can come back.” Even as he said it, his gut twisted. Heather tilted to the side, but Kerr held her tight. Another wash of fear and determination flooded over him. Heather swallowed, tilted her chin and stared into his eyes. “Get the rogues.”

It was then he realized what was happening, what he was feeling. “Heather.” He wrapped his fingers around her forearms, and held her away, broke the contact between their bodies, then finally dropped his hands, too. The sensation didn’t pass.

“It’s real, isn’t it?” she asked. “We’re sharing each other’s…” She held out her hand, ran her fingers gently down his chest, over his heart.

Mimicking her actions, he touched the now-ice-blue stone hanging from her neck. “Where did you get that?”

She pressed her palm against the pendant. “Arn. It’s what hides my powers.”

“Do all the witches have one?” Kerr asked.

Heather shivered, ran her hands up and down her arms. Kerr shivered, too, looked down and saw goose bumps forming on both of their arms. He scooped up his tunic and slipped it over Heather’s head, then pulled on his pants.

“I don’t know. I haven’t actually met any of the other witches. Maybe.”

Kerr studied the simple pendent. Could it be linking he and Heather somehow? There was another explanation, but not one he had thought would ever apply to him. He was a lone wolf, meant to stay that way. Meant to progress the status of garm in the human world, not settle down, take a mate.

He was fond of Heather, wanted to protect her, but bind himself to her? Love her?

“Can you take it off, just for a second?” he asked.

Heather’s fingers curled around the pendant, and for a second, he thought she’d refuse, but then her hand began to raise.

“Heather!” Someone pounded on the door to the closet where Kerr and Heather stood.

Heather dropped the pendant, turned and pulled Kerr’s tunic completely on, just as the door swung open. A female dressed in dark clothing, her hair covered with a woolen scarf rushed inside, grabbed Heather and pulled her into a hug. “You did it. You saved Sienna and Dorrit.”

Kerr started forward, then stopped, realizing Heather was happy to see the woman, welcomed her embrace. He blew out a breath—he felt Heather’s happiness.

“The garm.” The female stepped back, her eyes untrusting, a hand still on Heather. Her gaze took in Kerr’s partial nudity, then Heather’s bare legs, but she didn’t comment, just continued as if their state of undress was normal, expected. “Arn said he thought he was ready to help—to get you out of Gunngar.”

Heather squeezed the female’s fingers. “Not me, us. All of the witches. Everyone. If Kerr can open the portal, no one will have to be trapped in Gunngar.”

The female cast a short glance over her shoulder, back toward the main tavern. When she looked back, her eyes were crowded with emotions—hope, worry, fear. “You need to go alone, with the garm. To get all the witches there will take time. It’s a two-day journey on horseback and there are over a hundred witches in hiding. We’d have to gather them up, find horses and get them there.

“There is no way the Jager wouldn’t notice a movement of that size. Even if we somehow managed to get everyone together and out of the city without Marina hearing of it, she would have no trouble catching up with us. You have to go alone. He can shimmer you. He can’t shimmer a hundred more.” She glanced at Kerr. “Can you?”

Her lips were thin. She knew the answer—he couldn’t shimmer a group that big, not in one trip. And to take one hundred trips? One right after the other? He’d never tried such a thing. Never heard of such a thing being done. Maybe he could, but it was much more likely he’d fail. The Jagers would find them out and he’d be too weak to help in the resulting battle.

But there was another possibility.

“One garm can’t transport one hundred,” he replied.

The tiny speck of hope that had been in both Heather’s and the other female’s eyes died.

“But fifty can,” he finished.

Heather’s lips curved into a smile. “The rogues. We need the rogues.”

 

Walking into Jager Headquarters felt wrong, suicidal even, but Kerr and Heather had a plan; for it to work Marina had to trust him. Which meant he had to walk through Jager Headquarters’s gates boldly, as if he had nothing to hide.

“Garm.” Three guards rushed toward him, arrows notched in their bows. Within seconds, five more joined them, until Kerr was surrounded by elves, daggers drawn and arrows set ready to fly straight through his heart.

He ignored them, not even slowing his pace as he strode toward the main building. The elves had no problem keeping up. They sidestepped and scampered backward, moving as easily as if they were traveling forward. At the main doors however, they ground to a halt, the grip on their weapons taking on new intent.

“What happened in the dungeons, garm?” the one standing between Kerr and the door asked.

“I’m here to see Marina.” He angled one brow. He had no need to answer these minions. Marina would respect him more if he didn’t. All part of the plan.

“Last I heard you were on the ‘hunt down’ list, not the ‘welcome home’ list.” The same elf poked his arrow into Kerr’s chest, nicking his tunic.

Kerr shimmered, materializing behind the Jager. He grabbed the elf’s bow and twisted it from his grip. With the elf’s throat wedged in the crook of his arm, he pressed the tip of the silver arrow to the vein that vibrated in the Jager’s neck.

“I’m here to see Marina,” he repeated.

 

“It’s the only way I’ll leave.” Heather gripped the tiny hand tucked inside hers. Sienna. The little girl murmured to her one-armed rag doll, stroked its patchy yarn hair.

Arn, his nostrils flaring, turned on Lena. “You knew the plan. You agreed to the plan.”

“That was before.” Lena clenched her jaw dropping a hand to Sienna’s head.

“Justifiable costs,” Arn ground out. “We agreed.”

Heather glanced toward the small house’s kitchen where Dorrit and Dagmar had disappeared earlier—before Arn’s arrival. Heather and Lena had left the tavern without stopping to inform Arn of their new plan. Unfortunately, the dark elf had had no problem guessing where they had gone.

“That was before,” Lena replied, her voice dropping. She pulled her hand from the child’s head, curling her fingers into claws.

Anger vibrated between the two. Heather had no idea how Svartalfars fought—and she didn’t want to find out now, not in front of Sienna, not when she needed Lena and Arn to help gather the witches.

“It’s not her choice.” Heather caught Lena’s gaze, held it for a second so the other woman would know she was strong, wouldn’t let Arn bully her. Lena nodded, then dropped her own gaze to the little girl standing between them.

With a muttered curse, Lena grabbed Sienna by the shoulders and hurried her toward the kitchen.

Arn watched her go, his eyes narrow. “I thought she understood,” he muttered.

Heather flexed her fingers, preparing herself for whatever was about to happen, whatever she had to do.

“The garm was supposed to take you to the portal, dragging the rest along…” Arn shook his head, growled.

“I thought you wanted all the witches out—that getting Kerr to help them, not just me, was always your plan. Isn’t that what you said back at your tavern?” Heather flicked the nails on each finger against the pad of her thumb. Tiny sparks flew off as she did.

Arn twisted his neck, his gaze shooting to the blue flecks of light. Tiny lines formed around his eyes, between his eyebrows. “It is…was, but one garm? How can he get all the witches hidden in Gunngar to the portal? It’s not exactly an afternoon jaunt.”

“But that hasn’t changed. You knew that when you were talking to Kerr and me before. So, you were lying.” Electricity tripped down her arm, crackled as it left her fingers.

Instead of being alarmed, Arn leaned forward, looking intrigued. “The stone. You’re still wearing it?”

Her hand moved to the pendant without thinking.

Arn nodded. “But the magic. It’s not containing it. If anything, it’s getting stronger. Isn’t it?”

It was. Heather could feel power building inside her. She’d never held this much magic before, her blood hummed with it. Her brain buzzed, like a high-voltage electric line hung only inches away and follow her every step. But she didn’t want Arn to know that. She couldn’t trust Arn.

“Kerr isn’t going to take just me. We’re taking everyone or no one. Are you going to help?”

He smiled, a superior tilt of his lips. “You call the garm back, get him to open the portal, meanwhile I’ll gather up the others—get them started in that direction. You get through and he waits at the portal for the rest.”

“We thought of that—too risky. Gives the Jagers too much time to hunt everyone down, and they’d all be gathered in one place, an easy slaughter.”

“Witches can fight. Even if the Jager did catch them, they’d have a chance.”

“A hundred witches, many of them children against who knows how many elves? It’s suicide, and you know it.” Lena stepped into the room, her hands hidden under her tunic.

“It’s the only way.”

From the corner of her eye, Heather saw movement from the kitchen. A flash of purple almost caused her to turn, but she resisted the impulse. “No, it’s not,” she replied, stepping closer to Arn so his view of whatever was happening was blocked. “Kerr has gone to free the other garm. With their help, we’ll be able to move everyone at once.”

Arn’s brows lowered until Heather could barely see the dark hardness of his glare. “A fool’s plan. He’ll get himself captured or killed. We can’t afford that. We’ve waited so long. Call him back.”

“You’re not in charge, Arn. Not any longer.” Lena spoke softly, edged herself closer.

“You can’t find the witches without me. I’m the only one who knows where they are all hidden.” Arn’s glower didn’t break.

“But you’re going to tell us, aren’t you?” Lena asked. She was within a few feet now. Her hands moved under her tunic.

Arn’s gaze dropped to the movement then shot back to her face. “Don’t threaten me, Lena. Even armed, you can’t take me.”

With no warning, the dwarves pounced. Dorrit hit Arn in the back of the knees while Dagmar leaped onto his back. The redheaded dwarf wrapped her legs around Arn’s neck, then hung down his back like a trapeze artist. A silver chain dangled from her hands.

Before Arn could move, Dorrit had wrapped the other end of the chain around his feet. He fell over, facedown.

Lena moved into position behind him and pressed a dagger against his temple. While the dwarves finished their task, wrapping the chain around his hands and neck, she kept the blade in place. Once they were done, she leaned forward and hissed into his ear, “You ready to tell us now?”

 

“So…” Marina slid from behind her desk, sidled between Kerr and the Jager who’d escorted him to her office. “I thought we’d seen the last of you.”

He studied the thin box sitting on her desk. Up close there was no way to miss what it was. “A computer?” he asked.

Marina pushed one hip to the side, then slung her head toward the door, signaling for Kerr’s escort to leave. After the door clicked closed behind him, she sauntered back to her desk and slid into her chair. Her gaze on Kerr, she tapped the laptop with ice-blue nails. “What do you want?” she asked.

Kerr furrowed his brow as if considering her question, then pulled a leather armchair away from the wall, positioning it so he could see both the door and Marina, and sat.

“Do you care?” he asked.

She smiled. “Of course, you’re my guest, or were before you disappeared.”

“Out of the dungeon,” he added.

“Misunderstanding, I’m sure. Gal tends to be a tad reactionary. I can understand why you might have felt the need to…” She pursed her lips. “…defend yourself.”

Kerr tilted his head in assent.

“So…” Her eyes grew wide, innocent. “…all’s forgiven?”

Kerr suppressed the laugh that formed in his throat. “Of course,” he replied, his tone steady, bored.

Marina tapped her fingertips on the top of the closed laptop. “Then all is well.”

“Yes, it appears it is.” Kerr put his hands on the arms of the chair and moved to stand.

“Just one thing.” Marina leaned forward, her small breasts resting on the closed computer. “What happened down there? The guards who were in charge at the time were a bit…confused.”

“Confused?” Kerr settled back into his seat.

“They claimed all kinds of things.” She waved her fingers in the air. “Dozens of dwarves twirling axes and blades. And…” She laid one finger across her lips. “…a witch. A superwitch with powers they’d never seen.” The finger drifted to her chin. “Of course, that’s impossible. If there was such a witch our sensors would have picked up a power surge.”

“And they didn’t?” Kerr ran his thumbs over the cool leather of the chair’s arms. Perhaps the necklace Arn had given Heather did what the dark elf had claimed.

“Not even a bleep. Actually, I’d had second thoughts about sending you to the dungeon for such a minor offense. I’d sent a third guard to retrieve you. He saw one of the guards who had escorted you lying at the bottom of the steps, heard troubling noises and called for assistance.”

“Lucky for him one of the ‘dozens of dwarves’ didn’t catch him.”

Marina acknowledged his barb with a huff. “Yes, well, he wasn’t so lucky. Someone got him. We lost twenty in the attack.”

“Twenty,” Kerr repeated, tilting his head. “Heavy losses.”

Marina pushed herself back, her arms straight in front of her, her head shoved against the cushioned back of her chair. “What happened down there? Is there a superwitch?” Every bit of her seemed coiled, ready to pounce.

Kerr flipped his hands, palm up. “I’m afraid I didn’t hang around to find out.”

“You didn’t see a witch?” Marina asked.

Kerr opened his mouth, took care with the words he chose. Marina was too interested in his reply, too interested in this witch. He couldn’t risk giving some clue that might lead her to Heather.

“When we entered the dungeon, my guard misstepped, knocked against me and sent me tumbling down the steps.” He paused, arched a brow. “An accident I’m sure.”

“Most assuredly,” Marina replied.

“When I landed I was a little shaken, not as aware as I might have been. I saw a flash, realized it was a blade slicing toward me. I moved as quickly as I could. Luckily, the blade, an ax it turned out, cut through the chains, releasing me.”

“And you left?” Marina’s question was laden with disbelief.

“A mistake, I realize now, but at the time concern for my own safety outweighed any for my captor.” He paused before the last word, let her feel his resentment, faux though it was.

“I’ve apologized,” she said.

“Have you? I believe I just let you off the hook for any guilt.”

“And you forgave me.”

“Of course.” Kerr edged forward, placed his hands on his thighs. “I assume my room is still available, my things still there?”

Marina leaned forward, too, her eyes bright, even for her. “Have you heard the story of Amma? Do you know why we’re all really here? Why it is so important a ‘superwitch,’ if she exists, is caught? Destroyed?”

Kerr froze, her questions holding him in place as efficiently as two-foot spikes.

“We don’t hunt witches without reason, Kerr. In Gunngar a witch isn’t just a witch. A witch here could destroy us all. If Gunngar was open, if one of these witches escaped, it could be the end of Alfheim…of everything.”

Kerr concentrated on the rough texture of the material under his fingertips, on not giving away his thoughts, concerns. “I’m sure you have reasons for hunting the witches. I’ve not questioned you.”

“But you know something. Saw something in that dungeon, and for everyone’s safety I need to know what it was.”

Kerr was afraid she would push him for an answer, but instead she kept talking.

“As I’m sure you’ve heard, years ago Gunngar was open—the only land connection between Alfheim and Svartalfaheim. But then something happened. A witch came to Alfheim, a witch who hated all elves. She had two sisters, the three of them were greedy. They wanted to steal our magic and leave us with nothing. But this one witch, Amma, she was the only one who bore a threat to us—she was half elf herself. It gave her powers the others didn’t have, made it harder for us to battle her.

“Elves without magic. Can you imagine?” Marina’s eyes glowed with anger. Then as if remembering her audience, she took a breath and added, “It wouldn’t affect just Alfheim. It would affect all the worlds. Elf magic affects everything.”

Kerr wasn’t sure how much truth the statement held, wasn’t sure how what she claimed could be true, but he didn’t argue.

“The elf lords hunted her down, trapped her in a crystal cage, but even with their strength they could tell it wasn’t going to hold her.”

“Why not kill her?” Kerr asked, just to hear her reply, judge her honesty.

Marina’s brows lowered, seemed to consider the question. “Dangerous as she was, she was half elf, and we don’t destroy our own kind—not without trying all other options. Alfheim is a place of peace and light after all.”

Kerr thought the witch who had been burned in the town’s square might disagree, but let Marina’s lie slide.

“But in Amma’s case the elf lords did come up with another option. They were able to separate her spirit from her body, disabling her until they could figure out a way to reason with her, calm her.

“A group, the Jagers, was chosen to guard her spirit. It was secured into…” She pursed her lips, then curved them into a smile. “It was secured, but the elf lords were concerned Amma’s sisters might hear what had happened and mount an attack to rejoin her body and spirit.”

“Before the elf lords could learn how to ‘reason’ with her,” Kerr added.

“Of course,” Marina replied. “So the Jagers were given the charge of carrying Amma’s spirit to Gunngar.”

“And the elf lords shut the region down to keep her sisters out?” Kerr asked.

“And her spirit in.”

Kerr tapped one finger against his thigh. “What’s to keep the sisters from using a roving portal?”

“Nothing, but they’d be trapped here, too.” The slant of Marina’s eyes said she’d like nothing better than to meet up with Amma’s sisters. “And we’re watching for them.”

“The hunts,” Kerr murmured.

“Yes. The hunts.” Marina placed her hands back on the laptop, her blue nails glistened.

“But that’s not the only reason the Kampanjen is important.” Her voice low, she added, “Crucial.”

Marina’s performance was impeccable. She had Kerr’s attention now. He didn’t even try to hide the fact.

“Not long after we got here, days after Gunngar was shut down, there was a revolt. A ragtag group—they call themselves Bevarers—stormed headquarters. It was a ridiculous fight. Pure-blooded elves, trained by the elf lords themselves, against common dwarves and Svartalfars.”

“So, you defeated them.”

“Yes,” Marina snorted, casting her gaze to the side, but then her mood darkened. “Unfortunately many of them survived and, worse yet, we lost Amma’s spirit.”

“The Bevarers took it?”

“Our leader at the time claimed it was missing when he returned to his office.” She looked around. “This office, but there was no way dwarves or dark elves made it past our gates, our guards.”

Although dwarves and a lone witch made it into the Jager dungeon. Kerr kept the thought to himself.

“So, you don’t know the Bevarers have it?” Kerr asked.

“No, but who else would have it? Our leader didn’t, we made sure of that, and it wasn’t left in this building. For some reason, he must have given it to them.”

“Did he admit to it?”

Marina lightly tapped a gold ring on her finger against the laptop’s lid. “Unfortunately, he didn’t survive for long after the attack. Complications from the battle. Luckily, he was our only loss.” She sighed.

“And now you’re the leader,” Kerr stated.

She smiled. “I was the only one of royal blood. It was the obvious choice.”

Having no interest in elf politics, Kerr merely waited.

“So, now do you understand the importance of the hunts? Why if there is a superwitch we need to find her, destroy her?”

Not in the slightest.

Obviously, reading his expression, Marina shoved herself to a stand, leaned across her desk toward him. “She might be one of Amma’s sisters, or even worse, she might be Amma herself.”

“But Amma’s body isn’t here. Are you saying it could have been sent here, too?” Kerr was beginning to feel as if he was speaking with a child, a power-crazed, royal child.

“She doesn’t need her body. She just needs a body, a witch’s body. That’s why the elf lords sent her spirit to Gunngar. It’s mainly populated by dwarves and dark elves. Very few witches compared to other lands—and it was easy to shut down.”

“So this Amma—she could use any witch’s body?” A pounding was starting in Kerr’s temple. He fisted his hand to keep from pressing his fingers there.

“Not any. They would have to be compatible.”

“Compatible,” Kerr repeated, his gut clenching. “How likely is that?”

“We have no idea, but the elf lords say it’s possible. They believe Amma might even be strong enough to bring such a witch here.”

The dread that had been tightening around Kerr loosened some. Heather didn’t come to Gunngar of her own will. She was forced here just like he was, as punishment for stealing a portal back in the human world.

“The important thing,” Marina continued, “is that if the witch the guards described exists, if she is as powerful as they claim, she can’t be anyone other than Amma or one of her sisters. And she has to be destroyed.

“The fate of the nine worlds depends on it.” She sagged back into her seat, pulled a small wooden box from her desk drawer and held it out in one hand. When she was sure Kerr was watching, she flipped open the lid. Inside was a single silver needle.

“One prick is all we need. If Amma’s spirit is in the witch, this will drive it out.”

“And the witch? Her body?” Kerr asked.

“Unharmed.”

Until Marina and her Jagers got to her. That part didn’t have to be said.

Marina closed the lid on the box, sliding it to the edge of her desk, inches from where Kerr sat.

“Will you help us? If the Bevarers saw you in the dungeon, wrapped in the chains, they’ll never guess you are working with us now. You can go to them, act like you’re on their side. Then when you meet the witch…” Her gaze shifted to the box. Kerr’s followed.

“What do you say?”

Kerr stared at the tiny cube, the dark wood obvious against the white top of Marina’s desk. Then without looking up, he reached out and took the box.

H eather paced the length of Arn’s tavern, the rough material of her pants clinging to her legs, reminding her where she was. Not that she needed a reminder, the twenty faces staring at her kept her more than aware of her setting and how important escaping this place was.

“How much longer?” Heather murmured to herself.

Lena jostled the baby in her arms and handed him to his mother, one of the witches who sat waiting for Kerr’s return. “We’ve waited a century, a few hours is nothing.”

“But what if Marina didn’t buy his story? What if she put him back in the dungeon? Or just killed him this time?”

Lena lifted her shoulders. “We’ll go back to the dungeon. Get him or if…” She glanced at Heather and licked her lips. “We’ll go back to the dungeon. With Arn locked up, unable to toss around his weight and ideas, we can get more help. The garm will be fine.” She ran her hand down Heather’s arm, then patted another woman on the shoulder, pointing toward the kitchen. “Now we need to get these women and children fed, and settled in.”

The woman stood and began leading the others to the back. Once they had disappeared behind the kitchen door, Lena turned back to Heather. “We need to figure out how we’re going to keep them hidden until we hear from the garm.”

Heather swallowed. “Should we send them back? Did we move them too soon?”

“Better too soon than too late. At least this way, we know where everyone is, and we can keep an eye on them.”

Heather nodded. “And if the Jagers come here?”

Lena’s lips twisted. “We fight. It’s time the burnings stopped. I’m not pulling another child away from her mother, covering her eyes to keep her from seeing….” Lena glanced away.

Heather felt her gaze drop, too, weighed down by emotion.

The door to the tavern creaked open. Both women jumped.

Kerr strode in, a cape wrapped around his shoulders and a hat pulled low over his face. Behind him the wind blew, shoving icy bits of rain into the room.

“Why didn’t you shimmer?” Heather asked as he knocked water from the hat and cape, then hung them on a hook.

“I couldn’t. The Jagers are watching me.”

“You brought them here?” Lena glanced at Heather, her hands fisting at her sides.

“No. I lost them, but when I left headquarters Marina insisted I take a horse. If I’d left him tied somewhere or roaming free, she would have been suspicious—known I’d shimmered. Now she can’t prove that her spies didn’t just lose me in the weather.”

“Are you sure they don’t know you’re here?” Heather glanced at Lena, then back at Kerr. “We already gathered some of the witches. They’re in the kitchen.”

Kerr frowned. “Arn allowed that?”

“Arn isn’t in charge. Not anymore.” Lena picked up a doll one of the children had left on the floor and tucked it under her arm.

Her back was stiff. Heather could see the other female didn’t like what she had heard so far.

Heather stepped closer to Kerr, touched him on the arm. “So, Marina believed you? She trusts you?”

There were lines around his eyes, a crease between his brows. He looked tired, worried. “I don’t know about trust, but she let me back in. Actually…” He looked past Heather, darted his gaze at Lena.

She slapped dust off the doll and turned on the ball of her foot. “I’ll be in the kitchen. Once they’re all fed we can discuss what to do with them.”

The door thumped closed behind her. Heather’s hand tightened on Kerr’s sleeve. “She’s on our side. I trust her. I didn’t trust Arn, but I trust Lena.”

He placed his hand over hers, tugged her to one of the benches. “Good, because she’s listening.”

Heather glanced over her shoulder, saw that the kitchen door wasn’t totally flush with the wall.

“Does it matter?” she whispered.

Instead of answering, he pulled a small box from his pocket, set it on the table beside them.

Something inside Heather started to tingle. She reached out, her fingers walking across the worn wood toward the box. Kerr’s hand clamped down over the box, cutting it off from Heather’s view.

“How would you rank your power before you came here?” he asked.

Heather’s fingers curled downward, scraped against the wood. There was something bad in that box; she could feel it.

“Your powers, are they stronger here?” Kerr’s voice was solid, calm, but demanding.

“Why do you ask?” Heather’s hand inched closer. She needed to get the box, destroy it.

“Heather.” Kerr again, his voice sharp. His free hand reached out, grabbed her by the chin. “What is happening to you?”

She blinked, saw Kerr’s face, his strong jaw, the worry in his blue eyes. “I don’t know.” Even as she said the words, her hand moved again…closer to the box.

Kerr yanked the item from the table, and without thinking, Heather lunged, grabbed him around the wrists. One second she had him, was trying to claw the box from his grasp, the next he had shimmered. She fell forward, landing hard on the wooden floor.

She sprung up, spun. Where was the garm?

Air in the corner of the room, twenty feet away, began to move. Within seconds Kerr had reappeared, the box held between two fingers—open. Something small and silver glimmered inside it.

“What did the elf give you?” Heather asked. “You know you can’t trust her, believe her.”

“Should I trust you?” he asked, but the words were low, sad.

He placed one finger inside the box, touched the sliver of metal that glowed inside. “She told me a fantastic tale. Similar to the one Arn told, but with a twist. Do you want to hear it?”

Heather did and she didn’t. She opened her mouth to tell him to go on, to relay what Marina had said, then snapped her lips shut just as quickly. Her head began to pound. She dropped to her knees, cradled her head in her hands. What was happening to her?

“Heather?” In a moment, Kerr was beside her. He brushed the hair from her neck, and ran his fingers down her spine.

She dropped her hands to the floor and her chin to her chest, then exhaled, let the feel of his fingers relax her, bring her back to herself.

She looked up. “What’s happening to me?” she asked, and her voice quaked. She was afraid, more afraid than she had ever been. She had faced many monsters in her life, fought them all off one way or another, but never had she had to face a demon as scary as this one, one that seemed to live inside of her, was her.

“Sit down.” Kerr ran his hands under her arms, propped her onto the bench like the little girl’s forgotten doll. The box was still in his hand, but closed. Something inside Heather quivered. She recognized the emotion now—fear.

She looked at Kerr. “What’s in the box?”

He started to lift the lid, but she held out a hand. “Don’t. I don’t know if I can handle seeing it this close.”

He palmed the box, shoved it back in his pocket, out of sight, then slid onto the bench beside her. “Marina gave it to me. Do you know what’s inside?”

Heather started to shake her head no, but without warning words tumbled from her lips. “Elf magic,” she hissed. “It’s evil. It will steal my soul, leave me lifeless, a shell.” Heather snapped her gaze to Kerr. He sat perfectly still, as if afraid to move, to startle her.

“Why do you say that?” he asked.

Again Heather shook her head, but this time the words that came out of her mouth were her own. “I don’t know. I didn’t think it, just said it.” She licked her lips. “Was I right? Is it elfin?”

Kerr pressed his fingers against the bulge of the box. “Probably. Marina didn’t say. But what she did say…” He ran his hand under Heather’s hair, tipped her chin up with his thumb. “You didn’t answer my first question. What I saw you do in the dungeon, could you always do that?”

His eyes were the same clear blue they’d always been. Heather wanted to stop her observation there, not to see the concern and worry that lay behind them, but she couldn’t miss it. She knew that Kerr saw what she felt, that she was changing, turning into some sort of monster.

She wrapped her fingers around themselves, closed her eyes then opened them, met his gaze. “No, I couldn’t always do that. I didn’t even know what I was doing when I did.”

The hand still on his pocket tightened. Something inside Heather tightened, too, the urge to dive for the box returning. She swallowed, shoved the feeling aside.

“I’m afraid of that.” She nodded to where the box lay hidden. “I don’t know why, but I am. I want to take it from you and destroy it.”

“It’s a needle, a tiny silver needle. Marina told me a story about Amma.” He turned in his seat, so his side was pressed next to hers and they both faced the kitchen. His hand, the one that had been caressing her neck moved, too, fell onto his thigh, no longer touching her.

“What Arn told us?” Heather asked, but she didn’t need to. She knew the tale Marina had told wouldn’t match the dark elf’s. It wouldn’t paint the elves in the same bad light. But the way Kerr was acting, the way he wouldn’t look at her now—she also knew Marina’s version had to hold something more disturbing, something that involved Heather.

“Somewhat, but not completely. She told the same story of the elf lords separating Amma from her body. Of her spirit being encased in some vessel and sent to Gunngar, but she claims the Jagers lost it. That it was stolen by the Bevarers.”

“The Bevarers?” Heather’s fingers brushed the stone that hung from her neck. “Why would they want it? Can it be destroyed? Would that end all this?”

Kerr’s hand moved back to his pocket. He pulled out the box, and slid it onto his thigh, under his cupped fingers. Heather’s hand twitched. She lowered both of them, slid them under her legs and pressed down, trapping them, keeping herself from grabbing the box.

“According to Marina, Amma can escape the vessel if she has another body to move into.”

“Another body?” A cold sweat broke out over Heather’s skin. She shivered. “Like a dead body?”

Kerr shook his head, slow, careful, like he was preparing to deliver bad news. “Not dead, a witch. According to Marina, Amma can occupy the body of another witch.”

“Any witch?” Beneath her legs Heather’s fingers tried to curl. What she was thinking couldn’t be true. Why her? Amma had been exiled to Gunngar for a century or more, and many other witches were here, too. If she could take over another body, why wait?

“No, apparently the witch has to be compatible.” Kerr’s thumb grazed the line of the box’s lid and base.

“Like blood type?” Heather forced skepticism into her voice. Despite the strange feelings she’d been experiencing, what Kerr was suggesting wasn’t possible.

“So, one last time. Have you felt different since you’ve been here?” he asked. His fingers tightened around the box.

Heather’s gaze locked onto Kerr’s cupped hand. “What’s that needle supposed to do?” she asked.

“Release Amma’s spirit. Drive her out if she’s taken a witch.” As he said the words, he didn’t move, made no sign he was going to open the box.

“Marina told you that?”

He nodded, his gaze focused on Heather’s face.

“Can I see it now?” Heather asked. She edged backward, kept her hands firmly planted beneath her legs.

Kerr moved, too, sliding a foot or so back before lifting the lid. The needle sparkled against the black material that lined the box.

Heather leaned forward, to see the object better, but as she did, her body began to shake. “Shut it,” she muttered.

With a snap, Kerr closed the box, slid it behind him so Heather would have to dive past him to get to it.

When the box left Kerr’s hand Heather felt as if a weight had been lifted from her chest. She didn’t relax exactly, but she didn’t feel quite the same need to dive on him. She took a breath. “Did she say what would happen to the witch once Amma was driven out?”

He shook his head. “Only that she wouldn’t be hurt.”

“She’s lying.” Heather knew the words were true as soon as she spoke them. “Remember the fairy tale? The one where the princess pricks her finger on a spindle and falls asleep? What if that’s what that is?”

A line formed between Kerr’s brows. “Sleeping Beauty? But she was fine, right?”

“In the Disney version. I don’t think the original tale was as cheery.” Heather’s gaze went back to the box. “I don’t want you to use it on me. I don’t trust Marina, and something tells me that needle…it isn’t as innocent as she said.”

“You answered my question didn’t you? You think Amma’s inside you.” His words were flat, void of emotion.

Heather didn’t know how to reply, didn’t know how to explain the weird sensations, and new powers she’d been feeling. But she did know she didn’t want to risk facing the same fate Amma had—being driven out of her own body, her form left behind like a shell, while her soul was locked inside some cold unmoving object or, perhaps worse, left to float around Gunngar with no direction or purpose.

The bench beside her screeched over the floor. She looked up and saw Kerr stride from the room, his back tense, his shoulders squared. She glanced at the table where the box had been. It wasn’t there any longer.

 

Heather stepped out into the street. The rain had stopped, but the air was still heavy and wet. She wrapped her arms around her body, hugged herself. Just when she had started to hope, to feel she wasn’t alone, Kerr had pulled out that box—opening up doubts and fears she hadn’t realized existed.

“What are you thinking?”

Startled, Heather spun. Lena stood next to the tavern’s entrance, a shawl wrapped around her head and shoulders.

“I…” Heather faltered, not sure what Lena had heard or what she knew that Heather herself didn’t. “You were listening.”

Lena smoothed her hair under the shawl. “You knew that.”

“Is it true? Is Amma inside me?”

Lena’s lips twisted into a wry smile. “Seems you’d have a better idea of that than me.”

Heather faced the other woman, then grabbed the necklace that hung from her own neck. “Is this it? Is this how he did it? But why? Why, if Amma is as vile as everyone has said, would you want her to have a body? And why mine?” The metal setting Arn had had crafted for the stone cut into Heather’s hand, but the stone itself felt cold—no sign of the pulse she’d felt from it early on, no sign of life.

She knew then it was true, that she’d been wearing the vessel all along, that the new powers and random violent thoughts weren’t her own. They were Amma’s.

She grabbed the chain, started to jerk it over her head. Lena was beside her in a second. She wrapped her fingers around Heather’s wrists, held them in place, kept Heather from removing the necklace.

“Don’t. Your powers—the Jagers will sense them.”

Heather laughed. “Before I started wearing this thing, my powers were barely strong enough to light a candle. I never should have believed Arn, trusted any of you.” She jerked herself free of Lena’s hold, or tried to—the woman was strong, stronger than Heather would have guessed. Heather tried to stir up her outrage, to pull on the magic that had seemed to bubble out of her in the dungeon, any time she was threatened or angry. But this time it didn’t come.

Of course it didn’t. Amma wanted Lena to win this fight.

Heather lowered her arms, but kept her fingers wrapped around the chain, wishing she could stretch the metal like Play-Doh, tug on it until the links disintegrated in her hands.

“I haven’t lied to you,” Lena said, her hands gentling, but maintaining their hold. “And I stood up to Arn. I’m on your side.”

Somewhere in the darkness, Heather felt Kerr shimmer, felt the magic as he solidified, knew he was watching her, listening to her conversation with Lena. She ignored him, shut her eyes. She didn’t want to look at the woman she had started to think of as a friend, or face the garm she’d trusted, who had been willing to help her before he’d learned she harbored a monster inside her.

Alone. Alone. Alone. She had always been alone and always would be. Why couldn’t she accept that?

Holding hard to the thought, she opened her eyes, staring into Lena’s. “If you’re on my side, let me remove the necklace.”

Lena’s grip loosened further, but she didn’t let go, not completely. “I didn’t believe him. I never thought Amma was truly inside this thing, never thought she could move into someone else’s body. I would have stopped him if I had.” Her hands shook, her fingers pressed into Heather’s wrists. “But it does hide powers. You aren’t the first witch to wear it. We keep the others hidden by doctoring them with every anti-witchcraft herb we can grow and stopping them from using their magic. But this thing.” She grabbed the stone, pulled it out so Heather could see the dull maroon it had turned. “It allows the wearer to go without any of that. No herbs. They can even cast spells. I tried to get Arn to let more than one witch keep it. Told him the cause could benefit from a witch who could actually use magic secretly. But he never would. He’d have them hold it a few minutes, then stare at the thing and take it back. I don’t know why.”

“Because they weren’t her.” Arn staggered from behind a cart. A bandage was wrapped around his head, and his face was drawn into a scowl—an even darker, deeper expression than his normal glower. “The stone tells you what it needs. Points at it.”

Heather pulled back a bit at seeing the tavern owner. They’d known the room they’d locked him in at Dagmar’s wouldn’t hold him for long, had only needed enough time to find all the witches, but still Heather couldn’t say she was happy to see him. She glanced at Lena, tried to read the other woman’s reaction but, if anything, Lena’s expression revealed only resolve.

Arn shuffled a few steps closer.

Heather placed her fingers around the setting, ran one over the top of the stone—still cold and nonresponsive.

Arn stopped a foot away, shifted his gaze to Lena. “With none of those other witches did it do a thing, but this one, it came to life. An arrow formed in the middle, pointed at her. Then once she was wearing it, it kept changing, and when the garm was near, it pointed at him. That’s what told me what we had to do.”

“And what was that?” Kerr stepped out of the shadows. Arn and Lena jumped; Heather just released a breath. Even knowing he held a tool he might use against her at any moment, she was happy to see him, happy to know he hadn’t just written her off, walked away.

“Had to get you to get the witch out of Gunngar.” Arn jerked his head toward Heather, then winced, placing a hand on his neck.

“But why? Why get me out of Gunngar?” Heather’s frustration broke through her question, sharp, harsh.

Arn didn’t reply, just narrowed his eyes and shot a glare at Lena.

“Because he thinks if you leave, Amma leaves. And if Amma leaves, Gunngar will go back to the way it was.” Lena shoved the shawl from her head, staring back at the tavern owner.

“Only if the elf lords open it back up. And do you really think they will? You think they care about what’s happening here?” Kerr held up one hand, gesturing at the dark and grimy streets.

Arn cringed. His expression shifted from its normal scowl to a wary frown. “There’d be no reason to keep Gunngar locked up, not once Amma was gone.”

“And from what I’ve heard, the elf lords need a reason—to do anything. Meaning to unlock Gunngar, they’d need some motivation. I can’t imagine freeing things up here, so Svartalfars and dwarves can prosper, flow back and forth into Alfheim again, would be very high on their list of priorities.”

Arn pressed his knuckles to his lips. His eyes darted from Kerr to Lena. It was the most unsure Heather had seen him.

And it was scary—because she wanted to leave Gunngar. Thinking about it made the need grow. She wanted to order the trio to quit talking, to get her to the portal. Once there she’d blast her way out, claw her way out, do whatever was necessary to escape this cesspool of a land. She raised her hand, power tingling at her fingertips, ready to force them to act. Magic snapped blue-hot from her nails, sparkling as it formed a web connecting her fingers.

She stared at it with eyes she knew had gone round, then snapped her fingers closed, forced the magic back down—back to wherever Amma had pulled it from.

Her body shaking, she looked up. Kerr, Lena and Arn—all three stared back at her, various shades of horror and shock on their faces.

“It’s true. She’s in me. What do I do now?” Heather murmured.

Arn took a step forward, but Kerr reached her first, standing between her and the other two. He pulled the black box from his pocket. “What about this? Do you know anything about it?”

Heather knew when he lifted the lid. She clenched her jaw, her teeth, every inch of her body to keep herself from releasing the magic that thrummed inside her. Amma wanted that needle, wanted it gone, would do about anything to get rid of it…except she wouldn’t hurt Kerr, not yet, not while she thought he was the key to escaping Gunngar. At the realization, Heather relaxed a bit. Maybe, just maybe, if she could tap into what Amma wanted more, could read the witch she now knew lurked in her mind and body, she’d be able to save herself, and use the more powerful witch to get her out of Gunngar.

Then what? When she was back in the human world—or wherever the portal took them—how would she get rid of Amma then? Could she get rid of her? Or would Amma take over, shove Heather out of her own body?

K err could hear Heather’s body strumming as she struggled to contain the witch Amma. He doubted the others could, doubted even Heather herself knew how clear her fight for control was to him.

And that’s why he was here. Why he would fight with her. She didn’t choose this fate. It was forced upon her. He would do everything he could to keep her safe.

His fingers tightened around the box that held Marina’s gift. He wanted to believe the needle was as innocent as the Jager leader had indicated, but Heather’s fears and words had rung with truth. Marina couldn’t be trusted, wouldn’t care about the fate of the host, only that Amma was expelled.

Still, if there was a chance…His fingers trembled, but imperceptibly. He focused on the pair before him. “What do you know about this?” he asked.

Lena pulled her shawl more tightly around her shoulders, like the sight of the tiny bit of metal caused her to chill. She shook her head. “I’ve never seen it or heard of it, but I agree with Heather. You can’t trust Marina. It may do what she says, but there’s no way to know what state it would leave Heather in.”

Arn’s scowl had returned. He folded his arms over his chest and glared at the ground.

Kerr strode forward until the box was inches from the tavern owner’s nose, until he couldn’t ignore it, or Kerr. “What about you? You’re the one handing out magic objects. You know anything about this one?”

The dark elf looked up, his brows lowered. “Everybody’s heard of that. You want to kill her. Go ahead, poke her with it.”

Rage charged through Kerr’s veins. The dark elf was lying…or not. There was no way to tell, most likely the Svartalfar didn’t know the truth himself. And either way Arn would never say it was safe to use the needle because he didn’t want Amma separated from Heather—wanted both of them out of his land, shoved into another world, to become some other world’s problem.

Kerr snapped the lid shut and shoved the box back into his pocket. He whirled toward Heather. “The necklace. We have to remove it.”

“No.” Both Arn and Lena surged forward.

He turned on them, and snarled. Heather was his…his charge, his responsibility. He wasn’t sure what the witch meant to him, but she was his and he was going to save her. Had to save her.

“I’ll shimmer her somewhere. Somewhere the Jagers won’t be able to get to quickly. She can take off the necklace there.” He looked back at Heather, held out his hand to her. Her eyes were round, sad, but with enough hope that his desperation to help her increased tenfold. “You can tell me if it works. If it does, we’ll go straight to the portal, and get you out.”

“But the rogues…” Heather began.

Kerr shook his head. He couldn’t think about them now, he could only concentrate on saving Heather.

Heather took a step forward, slipping her hand into his. With her fingers gripped in his, he felt stronger somehow, and he knew what he was doing was right—that somehow they’d get out of this mess. He circled back to face Arn.

“The portal. Show me where it is.” He could shimmer anywhere within a world, anywhere that didn’t require a portal for entry, but he needed to have the position locked in his mind.

The dark elf narrowed his eyes. His hesitation gave Kerr hope. Arn wanted Kerr to take Heather through the portal, but only if Amma was taken with them. His hesitation could only mean the Svartalfar thought there was a chance removing the necklace would break the bond.

“Fine.” Arn jerked upright and yanked a folded scrap of cloth from his pocket and slapped it into Kerr’s palm.

As Kerr unfolded it, and began to study the worn depiction of Gunngar, Lena called, “Wait,” and she scurried into the tavern. Within minutes she was back, a drawstring bag in her hand. She handed it to Heather. “The herbs. In case it does work. They’ll hide your powers. Hopefully long enough for the garm to get the portal working.”

Kerr froze at her words. He’d forgotten it wouldn’t be as simple as walking through the portal. He’d have to undo whatever the elf lords had done to immobilize the doorway first, and Kerr had never been trained as a portal guardian. He’d have nothing to go on but wit and instinct.

Heather seemed unaware of his turmoil. She took the bag from Lena, then the two fell together in a hug. Kerr looked away, not wanting Heather to see the doubt he was fighting to suppress or the combination of hope and pain she and Lena seemed to be sharing.

As the two separated, Kerr held his hand out to Heather again, feeling the same sense of relief, of rightness, that he had experienced before when the heat of her fingers wove between his.

Then, without a goodbye or even a nod, he shimmered them to a far corner of Gunngar—to the portal.

 

Wherever Kerr had brought them was even darker than the city, and colder. Her fingers wrapping around the chain at her neck, Heather huddled into herself. She could see nothing but shapes; she could barely make out Kerr standing beside her.

“Are you ready?” Kerr tugged her closer, slipped his arm around her waist. She shivered against him and nodded, glad of his warmth and his companionship.

She was ready. Ready to be free of this curse and this place, but she was afraid, too—afraid removing the necklace wouldn’t be enough.

“You want me…” he asked. His fingers brushed her cheek, ran down her jaw.

She gripped the chain tighter, pulled it over her head. To her surprise, it slipped off—just as easily as it had gone on what seemed like a lifetime ago. She realized she’d expected the stone to resist, to cling to her skin, or pulse painfully when she touched it. But she hadn’t touched the stone, just the chain. Maybe that was it. She walked her hands down the chain until she found the oval loop that held the stone, then lightly ran her fingertip over the top. Nothing—just cold stone. Colder here than it had been back in the city.

She swallowed, and shoved the rock into her fist, squeezing until she knew the setting would leave an indentation in her skin.

“Give it to me.” Kerr’s fingers brushed hers.

Her hand contracted, refusing to let go of the stone.

“If you’re still touching it, we won’t know.” Kerr’s thumb caressed her knuckles, which ached under the force of her grip. Slowly, she forced one finger, then another to unfold, let the stone fall into Kerr’s palm.

He stepped back, leaving a foot of space between them. “There. How do you feel?”

Alone. Lost. Same as always, she wanted to say, but she swallowed the words. “Fine,” she murmured.

“Fine? How about Amma, can you feel her?”

Heather stared into the darkness. Amma. Could she feel her? She’d never felt her before, not unless Amma felt threatened or was angered. “Open the box,” she said.

Kerr’s shadow moved; there was rustling as he reached in his pocket to retrieve the needle.

Heather tensed, tried to concentrate on what was inside the box, what would happen if Kerr opened it and pulled out the needle.

She waited for the fear and anger, readied herself for them. Seconds ticked by. There was nothing. She blew a breath from rounded lips.

“What? Do you feel her?” Kerr asked.

Heather didn’t answer. She wanted to say no, and it would have been true. She didn’t feel Amma, and if she didn’t, if Amma was gone, Kerr had told her he’d take her through the portal. She’d be safe.

“How bad do you think Amma was? What do you think she’d do if she got out of Gunngar?” Heather asked. Her heart beat slow and loud in her chest. Her fingers pressed into her palms.

“I don’t know.” Soft words, which made them all the more unsettling.

“We haven’t heard her side of things,” Heather rambled; her stomach constricted. Dear God, she so wanted to believe Amma was gone. That she wouldn’t be unleashing a witch from hell on some other innocent world by walking through that portal. There was a time she wouldn’t have worried about that—would only have thought of saving herself. That was before she’d met Kerr, before she’d betrayed someone who trusted her, and had to live with the regrets.

“No. We haven’t.” Kerr’s voice seemed far away now, but Heather knew he hadn’t moved. It was just her mind playing tricks on her, her guilt at possibly unleashing an all-powerful psychotic witch on the nine worlds, muffling everything around her.

“Do you feel her?” Kerr asked again.

Heather licked her lips, sifted through her mind and gut again, searched for any sign that the other witch was present. Total silence was her only answer. “No, I don’t,” she replied.

Kerr exhaled.

“But I don’t believe it.” Heather shook her head, talking to herself, Kerr and Amma. “She’s hiding. She heard what you said, knows if we think she’s gone we’ll take her out of Gunngar. But I won’t let her trick us.”

“Are you—”

Heather held up a hand, cutting off Kerr’s next words. She’d felt a flicker…tiny, but it was there. Damn the witch Amma. She was still inside her. “You don’t fool me,” she whispered.

Then she felt it, stronger this time, a smile. Amma was smiling at her…in her…like she approved of her wit.

Heather sighed, and pressed her fingers to her stomach. The witch was in there somewhere. “She isn’t gone,” she said, her voice flat. Her chin dropped. She didn’t want to cry, didn’t want to feel defeated but, damn it, what was she going to do now?

“We’ll think of something.” Kerr, the box tucked away again, wrapped his fingers around her forearms and pulled her against his chest. “We have to.” His breath stirred her hair and her arms slipped around his waist. She pressed her cheek to his chest, let one tiny tear escape, before squeezing her eyes shut, forcing the despair that threatened to take her back down. She wouldn’t give in, wouldn’t give up. Kerr was right. Somehow she’d get out of this.

A finger lifted her chin. Lips brushed over hers. “We’ll get out of this,” he murmured. “You’re not alone. Not anymore.”

Heather flattened her hands against his chest, and opened her lips. As his mouth captured hers, her body began to tingle—Kerr shimmering them. She didn’t know where and didn’t care, as long as she wasn’t alone.

 

Kerr brushed his lips over Heather’s neck, where her pulse leaped. She was determined and scared. He could smell the emotions, feel them in the way she clung to him. And each desperate beat of her heart pierced into him, made him want to howl in frustration.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He was supposed to protect her, save her. And he couldn’t—not right now. Yes, he could have dragged her through the portal anyway; it had been mere feet away. But what then? What would Amma do to Heather’s body once the witch was free from Gunngar? Take over Heather completely? Use her body to stage some other war that Heather wouldn’t survive?

Kerr couldn’t face that. He needed time to think, to sort out what to do next.

But right now, he needed Heather, and based on how she was holding him, the scent of desire spiraling around her, she needed him, too.

He shimmered them to a cottage, rough and unoccupied, a place he’d heard of when working with the Jagers. An outpost of sorts that the light elves used when scouring the less populated parts of Gunngar for witches. No one was using it now. From what he had heard, no one had used it for years. The crusade had focused on the city.

As they solidified, he pulled his lips from Heather’s and held out the necklace. “I think you should wear it.”

Her gaze locked on to the stone. Her tongue darted out to moisten her lips. “I can take the herbs.”

“But then you can’t use your magic.” She’d be helpless.

“I can’t anyway, not in front of anyone.”

“But you have it. If something happens…” He didn’t finish, didn’t have to. Heather knew the dangers of Gunngar all too well. He stepped forward and slipped the chain over her head. He couldn’t leave her unprotected. His actions, or lack of actions, had already put her at risk enough. She didn’t resist, but she didn’t touch the stone, either, just stared down at it.

“It’s cold now,” she said. “It didn’t used to be, not when Amma was inside it.” Then she glanced around, acting like nothing was wrong, but Kerr could still feel her apprehension. She ran her hand over a wool blanket that was tossed over a chair. “Where are we?”

“A Jager house, but not one in use.”

At the mention of the Jagers, she stiffened. He pulled her against him. “No one has been here for months. And even if they decided to reopen this place, we’re hours from headquarters on horseback. We won’t stay long.”

“We won’t?” Her hand plucked at his shirt.

“We have to go back, go on with our plan.” He laid his cheek against the top of her head.

“Free the rogues, get the witches out of Gunngar,” she murmured.

“Yes,” he replied.

“Once it’s open. You can close it again.” Heather fisted her hand against his chest.

“I can.” But would he? They both knew what she was suggesting—that they free the rogues and other witches, then lock Gunngar back up, leave Heather and Amma trapped inside. But no matter what happened, he wasn’t leaving Heather. If he had to stay here forever, help her fight the witch who lurked inside her body, he would.

As if reading his thoughts, Heather added, “Eventually, she may win, take over completely. You realize that, don’t you?”

“No. I don’t.” It wouldn’t happen. He wouldn’t let it. He wouldn’t lose Heather. And he told her so, by pressing his lips against hers, and by pulling her even closer. She held back for a second, her hand still a solid form on his chest and tension running up the muscles of her back, but then something inside her seemed to give, her fingers flattened against his chest and her body swayed forward.

He relaxed then, too. Forgot about the impossible situation they were going to have to face and just reveled in the feel of her, soft and warm in his arms.

Heather knew letting down her guard right now was wrong. She didn’t have time to relax, but the feel of Kerr’s arms holding her up, the woodsy smell of him filling her lungs…She needed his strength, needed the physical connection to believe she could handle whatever lay ahead.

She ran her hands down his chest, to his stomach, then slipped them around his back. Everything about him, them, together felt so right. Why couldn’t they have found this before being exiled to Gunngar? Why couldn’t she have seen she didn’t need power to be of value? She just needed someone to love.

Kerr’s breath whispered over her ear, sending a tingle running down her spine. She curled her fingers into the small of his back, heard her nails catch on the rough shirt given to him by the Jagers.

The thought sent a lance of anger shooting through her. She shoved the shirt up, wanted him separated from everything that had to do with Gunngar, wanted it to be just she and Kerr—no reminders of anything to do with this place.

Kerr helped her, pulling his arms out of the tunic, then tossing it onto the ground. His pants followed. Naked, he turned back to her, bent in front of her and ran his hands slowly up her sides…calves, hips, waist. Even through her clothes, she could feel his touch, feel the frisson of anticipation as his palms skimmed her body.

At her waist he stopped, slipped his fingers under her shirt and pulled the garment up her body in a slow, sensuous slide of cloth that made her forget the coarse texture of the material, forget why she was wearing something so foreign to her normal life. She didn’t wait for him to find the tie to her pants; she jerked on the knot herself and inched the material down over her hips. His eyes were on her as she stood there, breasts bare, her pants edging down the curve of her hip, past that, until only her thumbs, tucked up under the drawstring, kept them from falling completely. Then even more slowly, she let them fall, felt air, cool but welcome, on her heated flesh.

She’d worn no underwear today, and she didn’t regret it, not when she saw the passion simmering in Kerr’s eyes. Her pants pooled at her feet. She stepped out of them and her shoes, placed her foot on the cold stone floor and pressed her body against Kerr’s warm length.

“Everything will work out,” he murmured.

Heather closed her eyes for a second, regretting his words, regretting being forced to remember that everything wasn’t okay. Then she tilted her face toward his, slipped her hand up his chest and around his neck and pulled his mouth down to hers.

For a second, Kerr didn’t touch her. Then his fingers drifted to her waist, stroked her skin up and down…a featherlike graze of a touch that sent prickles over her body. She sighed and arched against him. He murmured something next to her lips that she couldn’t make out, then pulled her closer. His mouth covered hers, his tongue slid between her teeth, and found hers. He moved his hands from her hips to her buttocks, kneaded the flesh there. Her mound rubbed against him. His erection pressed against her stomach.

She wiggled, tried to get closer, her fingers digging into his shoulders. It was just the two of them. No problems, no threats. Alone had never felt so good.

His mouth moved from hers, down her neck—little kisses that caused her to squirm on the balls of her feet, caused the tiny hairs on the back of her neck to stand up. She trailed her nails down his chest, felt hair, skin, sweat under her fingertips.

He smelled so good, strong and free. Sure and unrepentant. She wanted to be with him, be like him…forever.

“Heather,” he whispered against her ear. “I won’t leave you. You know that.”

She blinked back tears, wanting to believe his words almost as much as she didn’t want to hear them. She couldn’t trap him here, couldn’t ask him to stay with her. She loved him too much for that. She’d drive him away if she had to…if it came to that…if Amma won…

“Shhh.” She found his lips, silenced whatever else he was going to say. There’d be time for that argument later. She wouldn’t ruin their moments now with it.

His knee nudged hers. She stepped sideways so she straddled his thigh. He cupped her butt, pulled her up until her legs wrapped around his waist. His erection brushed her buttocks, tantalized her…so close.

He kissed her harder. She dug her fingers into his shoulders and rubbed her breasts against his chest—reveled in the feel of hair rough against the sensitive peaks.

His fingers found the opening between her legs, stroked her there until he found the little nub hidden in her folds. She arched again, her head falling back, her breasts leaving his chest. He slipped a finger inside her and she felt herself tighten, pushed herself up and down and he pulled in and out.

Her breasts swayed as she moved. His mouth captured one tip, his teeth nipping her flesh. A pant escaped her lips and she pushed back, then pulled herself even more tightly against him.

She could feel her orgasm building, didn’t want it to pass—not without him fully inside her. She reached down, found his erection, started to loosen her legs, to slide down, but he turned so her back was against a wall, kept her from going any further.

“I won’t leave you,” he repeated, grabbed her by the chin, forced her to look in his eyes. “You know that.”

She lowered her gaze, and he cursed, let her slide a tiny bit down the wall. She grabbed him tighter, didn’t try to hide the tears she could feel forming in her eyes. “I know that,” she whispered.

With a smile he recaptured her lips, scooped her a little higher in his arms, and thrust his length inside her. Her body tightened around him. She tightened her arms around him, used her legs to help in the rhythm of his erection pulling in and out.

If she didn’t open her eyes, didn’t think, just lost herself in the pleasure, she wouldn’t have to deal with the knowledge that she’d lied to him…just a little. That she’d left unsaid what she knew in her heart. That she wouldn’t let him sacrifice himself for her. That she wasn’t worth it.

Her body began to tense. His muscles tensed beneath her fingers. She could smell the heat of their bodies, the musky scent of their lovemaking. She pulled it into her lungs, lapped salt from his skin, used every sense but sight to memorize this moment.

Then as she felt him begin to shudder, felt her body edging closer and closer to the top, too, she let herself go, let everything go, opened her eyes to stare into his, let herself think for those few moments that she could have her happily ever after. And when their orgasms took them both away, she believed it—completely and totally believed it.

K err carried Heather to the couch, retrieved the blanket she’d touched earlier on the way. They were both sweaty, but she was shivering, too. He cradled her in his arms and wrapped the wool around them both. Then, cocooned together, he settled with her onto the couch.

“Do you think Dagmar and Dorrit will be willing to break back into the dungeon?” he asked. He hoped with Gal’s help he could talk his own way down using the front door. The half elf, after seeing how Marina had tossed the little girl into a cell, had been completely open to helping Kerr rescue her. Kerr hoped he’d feel the same way about the rogues.

Heather had quit shaking. She started to push herself away from Kerr, but he wrapped an arm around her, held her in place. She lowered her head back to his chest. “I’m sure of it,” she replied.

He blew out a breath, tried to stay focused on what he was saying, squashed the “but what about Amma” voice chanting in his brain. “So, that’s what we’ll do. I’ll take you to the dwarves and I’ll see what can be done from inside headquarters. See if I can get Gal to help me again, get into the part of the dungeon I can’t shimmer into. Once I’m in and have a way to get to the garm, the dwarves can cover for me.”

“What about me?” Heather asked, her cheek still pressed against his chest.

He frowned. “When the rogues are free, I’ll come for you.”

Heather pushed against him, this time hard enough he loosened his embrace. “There’s a witch inside me every elf in this land fears. It would be idiotic not to use her for what we can. I’ll come with Dorrit and Dagmar, just like the last time.”

Last time she’d lost control.

“You can stay with Lena. Make sure the witches are ready to travel.”

She stood, taking the blanket with her. “I don’t think so.”

“Too many bodies could just slow things down,” he replied, standing beside her.

“Then Dagmar can stay behind.” She turned, strode back to her clothes and began pulling them on with controlled, even movements.

He followed her, stepping over his own clothing on the way. “You don’t need to be there,” he said.

She spun; her eyes glistened with unshed tears. “But I do. I really, really do.”

They stared at each other for a second. He wanted to tell her no, that she had to stay at Lena’s, stay safe…away from the Jagers, but he had no right to order her. “The Jagers…” he started.

“Won’t sense me, not if I’m wearing this.” She pulled the stone from under her shirt. “I won’t be a liability.”

“I didn’t think—”

She moved forward, pressed her fingers against his lips. “I can help you. Amma can help you.”

He might not have the right to order Heather to stay anywhere, but he wasn’t going to let her endanger herself either. “We can’t trust her,” he said.

Heather laughed. “She wants you to succeed as much as I do. You’re her hope of escape.”

Which brought them back to the point they’d both been sidestepping, what they would do once the rogues were free, the witches transported and the portal open. “Can you control her?” he asked. He needed to know, needed to hear that she could, not because he wanted Heather in that dungeon, but because he wanted to think maybe, just maybe, they could both walk out of Gunngar, wait to face the issue of ridding Heather’s body of Amma once they were free. If they could get to Alfheim, he’d take on the elf lords himself, force them to free Heather from the mess they created. He caught Heather’s gaze with his own. He had a plan. It could work, if only Heather could keep Amma from taking over. “Can you control her?” he repeated.

Heather stared at him a moment; her eyes still glistened from her early fight against tears, and she looked tired. She dropped her gaze and stared at the stone that hung from her neck. “Yes, I can,” she murmured.

Kerr grabbed her by the upper arms, started to order her to repeat what she’d said so he’d know he could believe her, but instead he pulled her to his chest. She would control Amma. They would control Amma. They’d get out of Gunngar and go to the elf lords. This wouldn’t defeat them.

 

Kerr shimmered Heather to Dorrit’s. No one answered Heather’s knock, but the front door was unlocked. Wary, she stepped inside. The place looked much as it had the last time she’d visited. A few clothes and toys on the floor, but nothing that looked like there had been any kind of trouble or struggle.

Still, Heather’s heart beat heavily in her chest, until she looked out the back and saw Dagmar digging in the garden. Heather’s breath left her chest in a relieved huff.

Kerr, who’d been stalking through the house, came to a halt beside her. “Should we—” She held up her hand, her knuckles grazing his chest he stood so close.

She pointed out the window. “I’ll be fine. I’ll meet you later at the tavern.”

Dagmar stood, a bunch of potatoes balanced on her pitchfork. When she saw Heather, she waved. The last bit of tension Heather had been holding inside her unreeled.

Kerr’s fingers wrapped around her shoulders, and he pulled her against his chest as he murmured into her ear. “I don’t know how long it will be. If it’s too long, I’ll check back—look for you here or the tavern.”

She wanted to turn and throw her arms around his neck, to tell him not to leave, but perversely she wanted him to leave, too. Once he was gone she could quit acting as if everything was going to be okay. “That’s fine,” she replied, not turning, not even when he ran his hands down her arms, pressing a kiss to the side of her neck.

A few seconds later, he was gone. She’d pulled in the magic he let out when he shimmered. She didn’t know what was ahead, but she knew she was going to need all the reserves she could store—or Amma would. Surviving what was to come would depend more on the other witch’s strength than Heather’s.

Dagmar had bent again, to retrieve another load of potatoes. Heather let her head rest on the window’s cool glass. She’d finally gotten what she had wanted since she’d first realized she was a witch—power. She was stronger perhaps than even her friend and mentor whom she’d betrayed. And now all she could think of was getting rid of it, going back to who she was and where she’d been.

 

Kerr shimmered to just outside Marina’s office. She was standing behind her desk, staring at her laptop. As soon as he solidified she looked up, expectant, then gestured for him to enter.

“So, what did you learn?” she asked, sliding into her chair. Kerr hesitated. He’d planned to tell her he’d been unable to gain the Bevarers’ trust, to even find a Bevarer, but there was something about the way she’d looked up when he shimmered, as if she’d known he was standing there before she should have, and the way she watched him now, her eyes catlike, watching, waiting for him to make a false move.

“There’s a witch,” he replied, praying he was playing this correctly.

“There are a lot of witches. Is there one who might house Amma?” Marina wove her fingers together, then rested her chin on her bent knuckles. Her green elf eyes were wide, innocent.

Kerr knew he was being played. The Jager leader knew something, but what? How much to give away without risking Heather and the others?

He leaned forward and caught her gaze. “There is definitely one they think is special, but they are hiding her well.”

“Hmm.” Marina tilted her head. “You think they have her stashed somewhere, perhaps not in the city?”

“That would make sense, wouldn’t it? It would be silly to have her here, near headquarters.”

“True.” She tapped her still-woven fingers against her chin. “That must explain your trip to the lodge…” Kerr stiffened. “…and the portal.”

 

While Dagmar continued to dig in the garden, Heather wandered into the kitchen, found a pitcher filled with tea and poured herself a glass. Everything seemed so normal, it should have been reassuring, but it wasn’t. Heather could feel Amma inside her, coiled, ready to jump out at any moment.

She gripped the drink in her hand, trying to force the other witch down. The glass began to warm, heated more and more until the liquid inside bubbled and steamed. With a cry, Heather shoved it away from her, screaming again as some of the boiling liquid streamed onto her hand.

“Heather…” Dagmar raced into the room, her face pale, the pitchfork clutched in front of her.

Heather grabbed a cloth, began dabbing at the spill. “I’m fine. Really.”

“No. Jagers.” Dagmar jabbed the pitchfork toward the window. Standing outside, lining the garden, were at least fifty elves.

Heather’s palms began to burn. She glanced down. They were glowing red.

Amma was ready to fight.

 

Kerr looked up, knowing shock shone on his face, but unable to mask his surprise.

“Is that why you went there? Did you think the Bevarers had taken over the lodge and might be trying to open the portal?” Marina’s face was open, innocent, but Kerr saw the flicker of glee in her eyes. She thought she had him. If he retreated now, denied anything, her suspicions would be cast in stone.

“Were you following me? I thought we were past that.” He let the anger he felt for her, for what her actions were doing to Heather, what she had done to that mother and her child, pour into his voice.

Uncertainty flashed behind her gaze, but she recovered quickly. She tapped a finger on her laptop, then spun the machine around so he could see the screen. A map of Gunngar seemed to glow back at him, and dotted across it were colored virtual pinheads.

“A good leader doesn’t send her men out unprotected.” She smiled, her eyes taking on doelike innocence. “This…” She tapped on the screen, indicating a blue pinhead. “…is you. Here now with me.”

Kerr ignored her smile, scanned the screen for the other blue dots and catalogued where each was. There were five in total: one here at Marina’s office, one at the tavern, another at the portal, another at the Jager lodge where he had taken Heather and a last one at Dagmar and Dorrit’s home—where he had left Heather. His thighs tensed, his muscles ready to propel him to a stand, but he forced his body to stay still.

“And these…” She moved her finger in a circular motion, indicating the hundred or so red dots that at first he’d seen as scattered across the map. “…these are Jagers.” The screen shifted, the feed refreshing itself, and the dots moved. Now there was no missing their pattern. They were following his movements. Some headed to the portal, some to the lodge, but the ones that caught Kerr’s gaze, caused his throat to close in and his fists to clench, were the fifty or so surrounding Dagmar and Dorrit’s home.

“I sent them as soon as your destinations registered. I couldn’t leave you unprotected. We don’t know how many witches are out there, or how strong this superwitch really is. I would have been remiss to leave you on your own. Besides…” She shoved the laptop to the side. It knocked against a stack of papers, sending them crashing to the floor. “…if Amma is in this witch, we can’t waste time. We have to find her. Now.”

 

The elves didn’t advance, just stayed lined around the edge of the dwarves’ property.

“Why aren’t they moving?” Heather asked. Energy surged from her palms, through her body—so much that she could feel her hair moving upward, raised by the electric charge. Hate filled her. The same rage that she’d felt before, if anything, fed by the sight of so many elves, all intent on capturing her…

Again, Amma whispered…

Heather could feel the other witch, even stronger than before. But this time, Heather was armed with the knowledge that the emotion wasn’t her own, that the power wasn’t hers. She felt less lost, was able to maintain control.

“We have to be smart,” she murmured.

“Smart? Smart how?” Dagmar dropped to her knees and began jerking pots and pans out from beneath the sink, until she reached a wooden box. With a heave, she jerked the box free. Inside axes, short swords and an assortment of other metal weapons clanged. She sprang to her feet, a sword in one hand, an ax in the other. “We tried smart. That didn’t work. Time to be stupid—forget we’re outnumbered…slice and dice, smash and bash. Let’s gut the arrogant bastards.” She hopped onto a chair, stared out the window—and waved her ax at the line of elves.

 

The computer refreshed again. Kerr’s gaze locked on to the screen. The red dots had moved again. They had left Dorrit and Dagmar’s and were now closer to headquarters.

The pleased purr that rumbled out of Marina’s throat confirmed the hollow feeling that formed in his chest.

“Another spot swept.” Her gaze flicked up. “Anyone, witch, Svartalfar, even elf at either of the city spots are now on their way to the dungeon.”

Kerr stood, he couldn’t stop himself. “How can you tell?”

The female elf lifted one shoulder. “I just can. What’s wrong? You don’t look happy.” She frowned.

Kerr bit the inside of his lip. Attacking Marina now would only give away his stance. “It’s just…You took everyone? I hadn’t learned much yet. There’s no reason to think most of the people at either of those spots even knew about the witches.”

Marina pulled the laptop back around, cutting off his view. “Oh well. We’ll sort that out in the dungeon.” Then she smiled, a perfect, beautiful smile that made the hairs on the back of Kerr’s neck rise and a growl form in his chest. “And if there’s a mistake here and there…” She shrugged. “…these things happen. We’ll just have to make sure there’s nobody left behind to make a fuss about it.

“Now, tell me about the portal. Did they ask you to operate it?”

Still struggling to control his anger, Kerr missed the question and jerked when he realized she was expecting an answer. He glanced at the computer now turned toward Marina. “Have you spoken to any of them?” he asked. He had no idea of what the Jagers were capable of technologically. He’d obviously underestimated them when he’d assumed if he’d seen no riders behind him there were none, that he was free of any tail. At the thought, he spoke again. “Did you bug me?”

Marina, who had made no move to answer his first question, smiled at the second. “Do you mean to ask how we knew where you had been?” She cocked a brow. “I don’t really have to tell you, but you know that, don’t you? Still…” She picked up a pencil, jiggled it between two fingers. “…since you are still new to us and our ways, and we are building trust…” The pencil slowed. The tip rested on her desk. “The needle is also a tracker. We need to know where something as valuable as that is. It was lucky I had given it to you.”

Oh, yes. So lucky. Kerr’s hand went to his pocket.

Marina held out one hand. “I’ll need it back now.”

His fingers closed over the box, still encased in his pocket. “But how will you know you have the right witch? Perhaps I’d better continue my act…help you narrow down the possibilities.”

“How dedicated, but accuracy isn’t important. We just need witches to test, and it looks like…” She clicked her mouse and tapped a few keys on her computer. “…yes. It appears we will have a few dozen to try.”

“W ait.” Heather touched the dwarf on the shoulder. Dagmar, intent on the elves, grunted. “If they capture us, they’ll take us to the dungeon.”

The dwarf lowered her sword, turned. “You say that like it’s a good thing. Don’t know about you, but I don’t have a lot of fond memories of my last visit. I could go quite a while without a repeat.”

“But the garm are there.” Heather moved closer to the window. A small group of the elves seemed to be talking, deciding how to attack, she assumed.

“Garm? There was the one—your…friend—but he got out with us. You saying they caught him again. Stuck him back in?”

Heather paused. She hadn’t thought of what the elves lined up outside might mean for Kerr. Had he been captured? Or, Amma asked, Had he given them away, brought them back to betray them to the Jagers?

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Heather muttered. “Kerr wouldn’t do that.”

Dagmar cocked her head. “You okay? You been acting a bit weird—now’s not the time for a big crack-up.”

Heather looked down at the shorter female. “Not Kerr, the other garm. There were around fifty of them that came through the portal. Arn thinks Marina has them locked up somewhere.”

Dagmar tapped the ax handle against her leg. “The dungeon. But so what? What’s that got to do with where the skinny bastards’ll take us?”

“We need the garm to transport the witches. Fifty of them—they can carry one hundred witches to the portal in seconds. Give us time to get it open and escape before the Jagers figure out where we went.”

Dagmar caressed the metal head of her ax. “I didn’t see any garm down there—’ cept one with you.”

“They were locked up, behind another door.” Amma made a hissing noise; Heather looked up, back out the window. The elves were gone—but not really. She knew that. They’d decided on their method of attack. Power crackled against her palms again, warmed the glass, singed the wooden window frame. “The point is, we need to get inside the dungeon, and the elves want to take us. Why not let them?”

“’Cause they’ll toss us in a cell? One we won’t have the key to?” There was a whisper of movement somewhere in the house. Dagmar heard it, too, spun on one foot and held her ax at the ready.

Four elves bounded into the room. Heather knocked the two in the lead out with shots of power to the chest. Their eyes rolled back; they clunked backward. The other two landed and looked around for what had taken out their companions. Dagmar sprung forward swinging her ax—the flat end hit one in the head then felled the other within seconds of the first.

“You worried an elf can keep you locked up, dwarf?” It was Amma speaking, but Dagmar didn’t seem to take offense to her haughty tone, or even notice.

She jerked another ax from the box, and shoved it into Heather’s hands. “All that electricity fried your brain, witch? I don’t think so, but ’less you want these elves realizing you’re something special, you’ll fight like a dwarf now—no magic. You think you can handle that?”

Heather could feel Amma curl her lip, but Heather was back in control. “Just stay out of my way.”

As another bigger wave of elves flowed into the kitchen, Dagmar grinned and dropped to the ground. “Not a problem. Now start swinging.”

 

Dagmar’s advice had worked. The elves had seen Heather as little threat—even after she’d taken down two of them with a doubled-handed swing of the dwarf’s ax. She’d hit the first in the gut. Amma had glowed as he doubled over from the force. The second, she’d hit on the rebound of that strike, a sloppy hit to the kneecap, but it had done the trick, brought him down. While she’d stood heaving for breath over him, struggling to control Amma and her demands that Heather loose her powers on him, two other elves had jumped on her from behind, wrapped her in some kind of net. They had dragged her out onto the street, and left her there. A few minutes later, they had returned with a cursing and still-swinging Dagmar wrapped up in a similar net. They had both been tossed onto the backs of horses, brought to the dungeon, then rolled into a cell with a dozen others.

“Now what?” Dagmar stood, fists balled on her hips, feet wide. “They caught us. How are we getting out?”

The dwarf had a softball-size lump above her left eye. She hadn’t mentioned it once, nor the gash in her right calf that oozed blood through her torn leggings. Heather had her own wounds, but nothing as impressive or painful-looking as Dagmar’s. She felt somehow remiss.

“Have you seen Dorrit or Lena?” she asked.

Dagmar shook her head. “Heard they got Arn, though. That…” She stopped herself, not wanting to say the word witch, Heather realized. “…woman over there, Penny…that’s her name, was at the tavern. Lena had left when the Jagers came, but Arn was there. She said he took down ten of ’em. A Svartalfar—who’d have thought it?”

Not ready to join an Arn admiration society, Heather ignored the last bit, focused instead on Penny, the witch Dagmar had indicated. She was small and blond with pale-blue eyes, but with cocoa-dark skin. The combination looked unnatural to Heather, but she shook off the thought. Nothing was usual in Gunngar—at least not to Heather. As Heather watched, the witch pulled a cinched cloth bag from inside her shirt, took a pinch of something from the bag and began rubbing it onto a spot on the arm of the woman next to her.

Heather wove her way through the crowded cell toward her. Once there she slid down the wall into a squat next to her.

“You were at the tavern?” she asked.

The blonde looked up, stared at Heather for a second, then reached back into her sack. She pulled out a two-inch length of herb. “Chew this. It will make you feel better.”

Heather ran a finger over one of her bruises. “These? They aren’t bothering me.” She smiled, strangely pleased the marks were noticeable enough to draw the other woman’s concern.

“Not those. Your stomach. This will settle it. Give you energy, too.” She waved the herb.

Heather frowned, pressed her fingers to her abdomen. She’d noticed the slight roiling earlier, assumed it was a symptom of Amma’s possession. But her energy level had been high—had to be to keep her going through everything. “I’m fine,” she replied. “Not tired at all.”

The witch angled her head to study Heather further. “Too early. It will come. Keep it.” She shoved the herb into Heather’s closed fist.

Not wanting to offend her, Heather tucked the sprig into her shirt. “So, Dagmar said you were at the tavern when the Jagers attacked. What happened?”

The witch relayed a story not all that different from what had happened to Heather and Dagmar. Like Heather, the other witches hadn’t used magic to fight—unlike Heather, they hadn’t had the choice. They had all been on the herbs the Bevarers provided to suppress their powers.

Heather touched the spot where she had stored the twig the other witch had given her. “How often do they have to retake it? How long until they’ll get their powers back?”

Misunderstanding her, the witch tapped her bag. “Don’t worry, I have some with me. I think others do, too.”

Heather placed her hand over hers. “No. It’s time to fight. Everyone needs to stop taking them.”

“But if we do, they’ll know…”

“And what? Catch us?” Heather darted her eyes at the closed cell door. “Lock us up?”

“They could burn us.” Penny lowered her voice. “That’s what they could do.”

“You think they won’t do that anyway? Or worse? They burned that witch knowing what she was. What will they do to us to try and find others? I don’t know about you, but I’m not putting my hands up and walking into whatever they have planned.” Not without searing a few hundred of them on the way, Amma whispered.

Fear flickered behind Penny’s eyes, then resolve. She held up a hand, motioned for a young witch, maybe fourteen, to come over. After whispering in her ear, she nodded at Heather. “We’ll get the word out. We take the herbs three times a day. Most are probably due another course. Their powers should start to show in a few hours.”

Heather prayed it was soon enough…that Marina and her sadistic Jagers didn’t show before then, start dragging out witches before they had some way to defend themselves. She squeezed Penny’s hand. “What about the other cells? Is there a way to tell those there?”

Penny clutched her bag, shoved it into a pocket of her apron. “Already done.”

So, now there was nothing to do but wait. Heather stared at the heavy iron-clad door. At some point someone would have to open it. Would it be Kerr there to rescue them, or Marina to torture them? There was no way to know.

 

Kerr followed Gal down the dungeon steps. With the half-elf’s help, he had convinced Marina to let him visit the dungeon, to talk with Arn, try to convince him to finger the witch who had broken in and escaped the dungeon once before.

Kerr glanced at the slighter male. He didn’t know why Gal was helping, wasn’t one hundred percent confident that he was—that he wasn’t secretly gaining Kerr’s trust so he could turn on him later, use whatever he learned to ingratiate himself to Marina.

The half-elf was in love with her. Kerr didn’t understand why, but he recognized the symptoms.

“None of the prisoners have shown signs of magic,” Gal said as he walked down the steps in front of Kerr. “But Marina has stopped trusting our equipment. She thinks they’re doing something to hide their powers.”

With Gal’s back to him, Kerr didn’t feel the need to reply.

Eight elves were assigned to guard the prisoners. They had passed one at the top of the stairs. Another waited at the bottom. The remaining six were scattered along the corridor, standing outside or near closed cell doors—cells that Kerr knew held Arn, his Bevarers, and most likely Heather.

“Are all the cells full?” he asked.

They had reached the main part of the dungeon. Gal glanced at the Jager closest to them. “There was an elf assigned to each occupied cell.” He paused, his gaze darting to the last door, the one Kerr suspected hid the missing garm. “So, must be six cells, and I heard they were crowded. Which means fifteen to twenty in each.”

Kerr had been inside the cells. They were made to hold dwarves and elves, smaller beings than many of the witches, and not many of them. The conditions behind those doors couldn’t be good. He let his gaze wander over the far door, too, wondered exactly what lay behind that door—one cell? Multiple cells? What conditions had the garm been living in all this time?

“Arn’s in here.” Gal brushed past him, slipping something into Kerr’s pocket as he did.

Kerr slid his hand into his pocket, felt the heavy weight of two keys. He didn’t look at Gal; the half-elf had kept his part of the bargain. Kerr might never figure out why, but it didn’t matter. The keys were enough.

The Jager assigned to Arn’s cell, jiggled a key in the lock, then stepped inside. A few seconds later, Arn, his feet shackled together, shuffled toward the door. The elf walked behind him, shoved a metal rod into Arn’s back, urging him along.

When the tavern owner saw Kerr, his eyes narrowed. “You aren’t supposed to be here.”

Kerr grabbed him by the throat, cutting off any words that might give him away. “I’m sorry; I decided I liked working with the winners, the Jager.” He caught Arn’s gaze, tried to pour his real meaning…shut up, play along…into his eyes. The Svartalfar grunted and glowered back.

“Where’s the witch?” Kerr asked.

Fear flickered in Arn’s eyes. He started to speak, then stopped, seemed to be considering his next word. “Don’t know what you mean. Jagers are the ones that can find witches, not me.”

Kerr leaned close, hoping those watching would think he was whispering a threat in Arn’s ear. “Heather. Is she here? I left her with Dagmar.”

Arn swallowed. Kerr could smell his anxiety. “Heard Dagmar got caught. Don’t know about the other.”

Kerr dropped Arn onto the floor. “If I were you, I’d think quickly about turning the witch over.” He pretended to kick the Svartalfar in the stomach, then bent down and grabbed him by the hair, jerked his neck back. The Svartalfar curled inward, into a fetal position. Kerr slipped the smaller of the two keys into the shackles’ lock, covered the sound of the lock falling by smacking the dark elf’s face against the wall. Then he nodded to Gal, who jerked open the cell door. Back on his feet, Kerr shoved the Svartalfar back into his cell, peering inside as he did. Shoulder to shoulder sat sixteen or so witches, dwarves and children. The little girl he had helped to rescue once before sat huddled against Dorrit. The dwarf and the girl both started as they made eye contact. Kerr held a finger to his lips, darted his eyes to the door and twisting his fingers so they would know he was leaving it unlocked. Then he tapped his wrist, hoped they understood that they needed to wait, that he would give them a sign.

Afraid to take any longer, he stepped backward over Arn’s prone form and shoved the door shut. Behind him, Gal made a show of turning a key in the lock, but there was no sound of parts tumbling—the door was left unlocked, the cell’s occupants free to escape at any time.

“We need to check the other cells,” he announced to the nearest Jager.

The elf’s hand lowered to the short sword shoved in the scabbard at his waist. “We were only told you would visit the Svartalfar.”

“And the Svartalfar gave me reason to check the other cells. He’s hiding something, or someone. I may be able to sense the witch.” Kerr held two fingers to his temples, playing on the elves’ lack of knowledge of garm. Marina had asked if garm could find witches; he needed this one elf to believe he could.

Looking unsure, the elf motioned for two other Jagers to approach. After a few minutes of discussion, the three eyed him. The first spoke. “If you can sense witches, then why did you need to talk to the Svartalfar?”

Kerr shot them a superior look. “I got an image of the witch from the Svartalfar’s mind. Now, if I see her, I’ll know her.”

The three consulted again. One pulled what looked like a cell phone from his pocket, and started to speak into it, but Gal stepped forward. “You aren’t calling Marina, are you? You know she’s talking to the lords. That’s why she sent us here on our own.”

At mention of the elf lords, the three Jagers paled. Kerr darted a glance at Gal, wondered if what he said was true. Was Marina in communication with the elf lords while in Gunngar? How much of what was happening here was under their directive and how much was pure Marina?

Gal reached out and took the phone from the other elf’s hand. Surprisingly, the Jager let him. After snapping it closed, Gal held out his hand. “Give me the keys. Then, if there’s a problem you can always tell Marina I overpowered you, stole them from you.”

The elf snorted, shot a contemptuous look at his companions and turned toward the first door. After unlocking it, he motioned for Kerr to enter. This cell was as crowded as the first. Kerr scanned the room, his fist balled at his side as he prayed he’d see Heather—or not. He wasn’t sure which to hope for. If she wasn’t here, in any of the cells, what would that mean? He shoved the thought aside and glanced back over the tired, wary faces. In the back, surrounded by three children sat Lena.

He moved deeper into the room, pretending to scrutinize each face, occasionally stopping to concentrate more carefully at one or another. When he reached Lena he stopped and motioned for her to stand. She stared at him for a second, her eyes narrowed, but as the elf made a move to enter the cell, she placed the child who had been sitting on her lap on the floor, patted his head and stood.

“Heather? Is she here?” he asked.

Lena held his gaze, nothing changing on her face, not even the flicker of an eyelash giving away her thoughts, then slowly she raised and lowered her eyelids. A yes, silent, but unmissable. “With Dagmar?” he asked. Another yes. “Where?” This time Lena had no reply, glanced down at the child beside her instead, stroked his hair.

When she spoke, her voice was harsh. He couldn’t tell if the anger there was real and directed at him, or an act. “Are you here to release us, garm? There are a lot of children who need fresh air. All the cells are full. Did you know that? And some of the women…they have medication to take. What will happen to them if they miss their doses? I have a friend who thinks that’s not bad; that we should let the elves panic when the last dose wears off. But I’m not so sure.” She lifted her chin, stared him in the eyes. The anger was real, but so was her intent—she was telling him something.

He paused, analyzed her words, then it came to him. The herbs. The witches had quit taking them, and Heather had encouraged them. He cleared his throat, spoke so the elves near the door could hear. “If you cooperate, point out any witches, the rest can go free, sleep in their beds. But if not, then medications will have to be missed. You can’t expect us to allow you to be mixing powders and such in here. Not without knowing you aren’t working witchcraft.” He paused, waiting for her to reply, when she didn’t he continued, “If you have nothing else to say, I’ll move on. I have other cells to check, other guests to greet. But remember I’m only a knock on the door away—should you decide to talk.”

She glanced at the door, then back at him. He made the same turning of a key in a lock gesture he’d made for Arn. She closed her eyes once, slowly.

He continued his trip through the dungeon, questioning someone in every cell, searching every face. He saw a few familiar ones, but avoided them. He’d already talked to Lena and Arn, people with open connections to Heather. He didn’t want to show too much interest in anyone else related to her, not until he had found her.

Finally he reached the last door—the last cell occupied by Bevarers and witches, that is. There was still one more, the door he was sure hid the garm. He tried to look unconcerned as the guard undid the lock and pushed open the door. Then he forced himself to wait, to show no eagerness or anxiety about entering the cell, but a band had tightened around his heart. As the elf stepped out of the way, Kerr moved forward, felt a held breath escape his lungs. There, standing in the middle of the cell like she’d known he was coming, stood Heather.

He forced his eyes away, forced himself to follow the same routine he’d followed in the preceding five rooms. Scanned each face, then slowly chose one or two to approach. Dagmar sat in the back, her brows lowered, her lips moving as she mumbled to herself. He walked past her, stopped at a woman holding a leather bag instead. She smiled at him, no sign of menace in her eyes.

“There you are. They said you were coming,” she said.

Her eyes and hair were pale, too pale for her dark skin. He looked away, uncomfortable under her gaze. He’d only stopped before her to divert attention from his real destination—Heather. He hadn’t wanted to engage this female, speak with her, not really, but she looked up, expectant, continued talking like they’d known each other for decades. “They’re good ones, strong. They’ll watch out for her. They need her.” She peered at him again. Her gaze sent a shiver down his spine. “’Course you do, too.” She tapped her fingers on her bag and glanced at Heather.

Kerr turned, gratefully moving away from the strange female. He stopped instead next to a redhead with a child, spoke to her briefly, then moved again, continued his circuit around the room until he reached Heather.

She glanced up at him, her face open, confident, accepting. Her hair, even in the stale air of the dirty cell, danced around her face, seeming even more alive surrounded by the drudgery of the dungeon than when she was outside, free. “And you. Do you know where the witch is?” he asked. “The one I’ve heard of?”

She smiled, brushed a strand of hair from her face. “What would you do with this witch?”

He kept his face stern, but grabbed her hand, let his thumb drift over her palm. “I think you can guess what I’d do with the witch.” Her skin was warm, and the center of her palm seemed to pulse. He pressed the spot again, circled it. “So, do you want to turn her over? Save yourself?”

She folded her thumb over his, held his gaze. “If only I could.”

He had to fight to keep from pulling her close then. Every instinct in his body said to shimmer, take her with him, take them both to the portal.

As the thought grew inside him, as the first hint of tingle started in his core, something pulled on his pant leg. He glanced down. A girl almost identical to the girl he’d seen in the cell with Dorrit, the one whose mother had been burned, stared up at him. “You know where sissy is?” she asked in a high-pitched voice that pierced him like a spear.

Dagmar strode over, grabbed the child by the hand. “She’s been looking for her sister. You seen her?” The dwarf’s stance was solid, her gaze level, but Kerr could see the fear in her eyes, the dread that he’d say he hadn’t or worse, that the girl was gone.

He curled his fingers into his palms to keep himself from reaching down to the child, showing compassion. Instead he grabbed Heather by the forearm, pushed the dwarf from their path. “I have no time for you, dwarf, but this may be your lucky day, and the girl’s. This woman says she can find the witch. If it’s true, you may all be free soon.” He strode toward the door, dragging Heather behind him. She didn’t resist, if anything she hurried her steps to keep up with him. The room of dwarves, Svartalfar and witches parted to let them pass. The woman with the eerie eyes smiled, waved. He ignored her, ignored everyone but his destination and the feel of Heather’s arm wrapped inside his hand. Kerr didn’t even take a breath until he and Heather were both standing outside the cell.

He shoved the cell door shut, then before the guard could step forward to relock it, pulled Heather close and announced. “We have someone willing to talk…now.” As he shouted the last word all the cell doors, including the one he had just closed, flew open. The elf guards spun, their eyes darting from door to door, unsure what to do.

The occupants of the cells didn’t wait. Arn appeared first. His head lowered, he charged like a bull at the closest Jager, knocking him in the gut, ramming the smaller being into the hard stone wall behind him. Dwarves, Svartalfar and witches followed. And it was easy to see who the witches were, without their latest dose of herbs, power crackled at their fingertips, glowed through their veins. It was like the forced dormancy had caused a backlash, elevated each’s power to the point standing in the dungeon was like standing in an electric field.

The hair on Kerr’s arms stood at attention. Power snapped around him. He turned to glance at Heather. Her hair flew up from her shoulders, her clothing seeming to lift, too. She raised her arms, threw back her head, seemed to be sucking in the excess energy that filled the space.

Kerr reached for her, but his hand hit a wall, was flung up and back, wrenching his shoulder. He stared, amazed and a little afraid. Was Heather still in there, or was this it? Had he done nothing but unleash Amma on Gunngar?

The muscles of Heather’s neck tensed, her shoulders stiffened. She seemed to quiver. Kerr started to reach for her again, but stopped himself when he realized there was some struggle going on inside her—if he touched her, startled her, would he help the wrong witch? Then slowly Heather lowered her head and smiled…sad, but with grim determination and he knew that perhaps Amma had gained control for a second, but Heather was back. She was still with him—for now.

He held out his hand and she slipped her fingers into his. “Let’s free the garm,” she whispered. Her fingers were cold and trembling. He squeezed his around them, willed warmth into her.

“Let’s,” he replied.

H eather clasped Kerr’s fingers. She’d lost the battle for a second, let Amma take over. The other witch’s hatred of the elves had been too strong, her desire to take her revenge overwhelming. For a second, Heather had gotten lost in it. She had thought the emotions were her own, had thought the urge to start blasting was coming from her gut, not from the other spirit occupying her body. But then something had happened, some other voice—or emotion—had began to ping away at her, reminding her who she was, why she needed to be strong…and be herself. She’d found the strength to resist, or maybe Amma had let her. The witch wanted what Heather wanted, the garm free. Amma had just been willing to take a detour and kill a few elves along the way.

But the urge wasn’t Heather’s, and she wouldn’t give into it—she wouldn’t kill simply to please or appease Amma.

In the main part of the dungeon, Arn stormed, swinging the manacles the Jager had bound him with round and round his head. He let go of the slack and the chain unfurled. The metal cuff hit one elf; another leaped to avoid it. Lena surged in behind him, hit him with a crutch one of the older witches had been using to stumble along. But now that witch, minutes earlier almost doubled with age, stood tall, energy zipping from her palms. A grin split her lined face. A cackle, an eerie mix of joy and vengeance fell from her lips.

Heather squeezed Kerr’s fingers again and turned her back on all of them. Power began to sizzle in her palms, Amma asking for one small release. Heather jerked her fingers from Kerr’s and smashed them against her thighs, squashed down the power Amma wanted her to let loose.

Then without looking back, she strode to the door. Kerr followed, a key glinting in his hand.

She stood with her back to him, facing the fray. A Jager spotted them, notched an arrow in his bow. Before he could pull back the string, Heather gave Amma a bit of rein, freed some of the power sizzling through her veins. A line of energy shot from her middle finger, sliced into the arrow, splitting it in two. The elf jumped back, dropping the bow. His gaze shot to Heather; his eyes rounded and color drained from his face.

She smiled, or Amma smiled; Heather was losing the distinction again. Another elf dived from inside the nearby cell. A sword in his hand, he lashed out. A length of her hair that was cut by the blade fell to the ground. Amma didn’t pause. She flung Heather’s arm to the side, blasted the elf full force with enough energy to send him sailing backward, to singe him inside and out. The stench of burned flesh clogged Heather’s lungs. She coughed, pressed her hand to her lips, tried to clear the smell and taste from her lungs and throat.

Blinking she forced down the horror at what her body had done. “Him or us,” she heard Amma murmur. Then her body was jerked again, another surge of power shooting from both palms. Two more elves fell, screaming as they did.

Heather took a step backward, yelled over her shoulder to Kerr. “Is it open?” He didn’t reply, but Heather could feel his frustration, feel the energy as clearly as if she’d ran her hand down his back, felt the tension there.

“Be useful,” she murmured to the witch inside her, then spun and grabbed Kerr’s arm. He looked at her, the key she’d seen earlier lying flat on his palm. “It doesn’t work—neither does.” He gestured to the door where a second key protruded from the lock.

“We don’t need a key.” Heather slipped under his arm and held out both hands. Power barreled from her palms, beat into the door near the lock. The backlash hit Heather—wave after wave of hits, like a baseball bat to her center. She grunted, started to double over. Kerr slipped his arms around her, kept her from falling.

“It’s dwarf metal laced with elf magic,” he said. “Give it up. Don’t hurt yourself.”

But she couldn’t. Neither she nor Amma were willing to walk away from this, and neither was…she took a breath…someone else wanted her to do this, to succeed. Something clicked inside her, new power flowed through her. She straightened, pressed a hand to the space on her stomach right above Kerr’s arm. Suddenly, she didn’t feel alone in her battle against Amma or this door, knew she could defeat them both.

Kerr pulled her closer against his chest. “It’s okay. We’ll find another way.”

But they wouldn’t. They both knew that.

She shook her head, felt her hair fall against her shoulder on one side only, the other cropped to just under her ear by the elf’s sword stroke.

“Hold on,” she murmured. Then she hit the door again, this time pulling on everything she, Amma and whoever else was supplying her with power had to offer. The door began to creak.

As if alerted by the sound, elves began pouring down the dungeon steps—Amma whispered that they were arriving, murmured things to herself about what she would do to them, how she would kill them…one by one…enjoy each of their screams. Heather blocked her out, ignored her, ignored the volley of arrows that pelted the wall behind her.

Kerr gripped her tighter, started to shimmer. “Not yet,” she whispered. Her body was tense, with anxiety and the energy pounding out of her. The door creaked again, then buckled. “It’s giving,” she murmured.

Kerr wrapped his arms around hers, forcing her hands down, then pushed her behind him. Her knees wanted to give. She let herself slide a few inches, until she felt the wall at her back then she dug in her heels, forced her body to stay upright as Kerr pulled back his foot and slammed a kick at the door.

With the shriek of metal tearing, the door flew open and Kerr flew in, pulling Heather with him.

 

Kerr slammed the door closed behind them, jammed a bar of iron he found under the handle, held Heather in his arms. He could feel her heartbeat, hear her breathing—ragged and loud in his ears. He squeezed her tighter and buried his nose in her hair. After everything she still smelled of roses.

Over her head he stared into darkness. The door hadn’t led to one cell as he had hoped. Instead he faced a long narrow tunnel that branched off in three directions. He started to move forward, to look for some sign as to which tunnel held the garm, but as he did, the door behind him moved—Jagers trying to break in.

“I can hold it,” Heather spoke from in front of him. “Or Amma can.” She smiled, the same sad tilt of her lips he was beginning to expect from her. It made his own heart sink.

“No.” He shook his head. He couldn’t leave her here alone, couldn’t ask her to fend off the Jagers he’d seen pouring down those steps.

“Don’t be an idiot. She won’t go without the others. Unless you could force her. Could you force her, garm?” The voice coming from Heather’s body was harsh with an accent. Even her stance had shifted—from tired and sad to haughty and angry.

“Amma?” he muttered.

“Yes.” The witch in Heather smiled. She turned in his arms, ran Heather’s fingers down his cheek. He shivered. The brown eyes he stared into weren’t the soft brown of Heather’s. They were hard, cold. Her touch was cold, too, made him want to shove her away, but he didn’t. Heather was still in there somewhere.

“That’s right. She’s here. All safe and snug. You want to keep her that way?” Heather’s fingers changed to claws, sliced into his skin. “Take me to the portal,” she ordered. Without warning her head was flung back, and a curse flew from her lips.

Heather’s body twitched in his embrace. He didn’t let go, didn’t let her fall. Then her head fell forward and for a second he thought she was gone—that both were gone.

The door shoved into his back again. Too shocked to react, he didn’t move, let it whack into him.

On the third hit, the female in his arms began to stir, raised her head and gazed into his eyes. Heather, back and looking even more grimly determined, jammed her hand over his shoulder, against the door. “I’ll hold it. You go.”

He could see the struggle in her eyes, knew she was in pain, but she was also the rogues’ only hope, the witches’ only hope. With a nod, he slipped from in front of her, waited to see that she was holding the door, that the force pushing against it wouldn’t overpower her. She stared straight ahead, deep grooves forming in her back where her muscles strained. She had both palms pressed against the door now, and power was flowing out of both of them. The door wasn’t moving; her magic held it more tightly than he ever could. He whispered a prayer, fisted his hand in front of his face, then turned and forced himself to jog away from her, to move to the base of the tunnel’s fork.

There he resisted the need to glance back over his shoulder, to see what Heather was doing, that she was still okay. She was strong—stronger than he had ever given her credit for being. She would do what she could.

Hopefully, it would be enough.

He concentrated again on the three tunnels that broke from the one in which he stood. The air was still in all three—none were a simple opening to the outside. He inhaled, searched for the scent of garm, of pine, the wild. Nothing.

With no movement in the air and no scent to guide him, he paused again, then began to move, let his gut direct his feet. He was facing the middle path. With no explanation as to why he’d stopped here, he took a step forward, then two. Then for some reason, certain this was the right choice, he raced forward into the dark.

 

The door in front of Heather moved under her palms. She poured power out of her fingers, felt the metal warm under her hands—charged the door until it glowed with energy. She heard a scream and the thump of bodies being repelled on the other side. She’d filled it with so much voltage no one could touch the thing without being knocked backward.

“Touch it, little elves,” Amma cooed.

“What do you say we just touch you?” a voice cold and clear as a mountain spring cut through the buzz of magic filling Heather’s head. She jerked her gaze from the door, but her hands wouldn’t move as quickly, not with the power zipping from her fingers to the metal.

Marina, flanked by a half dozen guards, smiled and flicked a hand upright, signaling one of the elves beside her. His hand rose, something metal flashed, then before Heather could make a move to defend herself, even fully register what was happening, her world exploded into flashes of light and pain….

 

Kerr hurried down the tunnel, trying not to think about Heather standing with her palms pressed against that door or what waited on the other side for her. The walls of the tunnel were jagged, lacking the care and skill that had been used to craft the rest of the dungeon, but the floors were smooth, worn by many feet trudging through them—to where? Kerr paused for a second, closed his eyes and inhaled—dank earth, mold and something else—familiar—something that made his eyes fly open and his body tense. Garm. He inhaled again, eager to confirm his findings, scented something new, not as familiar—frost, frozen ground.

He let out a breath, and continued his journey. With each step both smells grew stronger and the temperature dropped. His anticipation and wariness growing, he kept going, but slower.

He’d come through the portal with fifty garm in prime condition. Not the easiest of beings to keep prisoner. What kind of safeguards would Marina have taken—simply locking them behind this door? He didn’t think so. He’d spent too much time with the Jager leader, she never left anything to chance.

The tunnel took a turn downward, deeper into the earth. It grew darker, too, the little light that had been available right inside the door, gone. He could make out shadows now, just enough that he could see that the tunnel twisted again, a sharp turn to the left.

He stopped, inhaled again. The smell of garm was stronger. They were close, but so was the source of the cold. The hair on his arms stood up; he considered changing to wolf form for warmth, but not knowing what lay ahead, he didn’t shift. Once he changed, he’d be naked when he changed back—best to make sure he wanted to stay in that form. For now he would stay human.

He lowered his brows. It was hard to imagine the earth was simply this much colder down here. His teeth threatened to chatter and his fingers were becoming numb.

No, something was creating this cold and whatever it was, whatever lay around this corner was part of Marina’s plan, part of her defense.

And it couldn’t be good.

Kerr pressed one palm against the wall, didn’t even feel the rocks jutting out of it, his hands were so cold. Ignoring the annoying realization, he leaned ahead and edged around the corner.

The tunnel opened there, tripled in size, but Kerr didn’t try to step forward, didn’t do anything but stare and mutter a curse in his head. Damn Marina and her sick imagination. Somehow the evil bitch had found the one creature Kerr had no doubt he couldn’t beat, the one creature that could freeze him like an icicle and then swallow him whole.

Shoved into the space unable to turn or move, with only perhaps two feet between the giant creature and the wall, was a dragon—an ice dragon—a creature of Niflheim, if you believed the legends. Until this moment, Kerr never had. The dragons blended into the icy mists of the land, sneaking up on trespassers and covering them with their wintry breath. Frozen, their victims could do nothing but watch as the beasts lumbered closer, chomped into them like a bloody popsicle.

Kerr hadn’t believed they existed. He didn’t want to believe, even now.

The beast was facing Kerr. As he breathed out, bits of ice fell from his nose. He was silver and blue; his scales gleamed in the dark. In full daylight he would have been blinding—or invisible in the gray mists of Niflheim.

Behind the dragon lay another door. This one as silver as the dragon’s skin. Waves of energy drifted from the slab of metal—elf magic. It was only the second sign of elf handicraft Kerr had seen in the dungeon. The energy was unmistakable, stronger than with the outer door. He wouldn’t be able to shimmer through this door, either. He patted his pocket, where he’d slipped the two keys Gal had given him. Neither had opened the last door, but hopefully that was because they were meant for this one.

He prayed so.

The dragon breathed out again, mists that hardened to ice shot from his nostrils. The rock under Kerr’s hand chilled even more until it was so cold it almost burned to the touch; he jerked his hand away. He eyed the animal for a moment, marveled that such a creature existed, that Marina had somehow captured one.

The dragon shifted again; his nostrils flaring, he inhaled deeply. His eyelids began to quiver.

He had smelled Kerr. The garm knew it. He’d never make it past the beast now. Luckily he wasn’t dependent on stealth, had another, quicker mode of transportation. He dug the key from his pocket, ready to shove it in the lock, then shimmered.

He’d barely dematerialized when he felt something jolt through him, knock him back to solidity. Fully formed he fell to the ground, landing in the thin strip of space between the dragon and the tunnel’s wall.

The door was still thirty feet away.

“Are all garm so rude?” a voice, deep and barbed, spoke. “I haven’t met the others, just smelled them. They don’t smell rude, more…tasty.”

Kerr shoved himself to upright, and stared into the silvery-blue eyes of the dragon. An inch away, the tip of the dragon’s tail beat up and down, patting against the frozen ground. Each strike reverberated through Kerr’s body.

“What are you doing here, garm? I’d been left alone with only one little interruption for a century, then suddenly the elves show up with your kind. Remind me of my torment.” He lifted one foot. A silver shackle encased it.

Kerr’s glance moved over the dragon’s body. A similar shackle decorated each foot. A fifth was around his neck.

The dragon’s tail twitched like a cat’s. His eyes held a feline slant, too. Kerr tried not to dwell on what the twitching tail might mean.

“I’m here to get them,” he replied, his gaze holding the dragon’s.

“Them? The elves or the garm?” The dragon’s eyes glowed more silver than blue at the question.

“The garm. Are there elves here, too?” Kerr tried to keep the question light. The dragon had made no real move of aggression. Perhaps he wouldn’t. Perhaps he might even help Kerr—he couldn’t feel loyalty to the elves, not if they were who held him here. Could he?

“Dragons have loyalty to no one,” the dragon muttered, then yawned. Mists rolled out of his throat. Kerr leaped, missing the ice missiles that dropped around him by inches. He glanced over his shoulder at the door, so close, then realizing he hadn’t spoken his question on the elves and the dragon’s loyalty out loud, he paused.

“That’s right. I can read your mind, tiny thing that it is.” The dragon’s tail reached out, curled around Kerr’s feet, not touching him, but there…ready. “Makes us hard to outsmart.”

But someone had or the dragon wouldn’t be here trapped—Kerr cut off his thoughts.

The dragon’s lip curled, revealing long sharp teeth. “I was younger then, stupid.” He snapped his jaws. “I’m not stupid any longer.”

Kerr kept his mind blank and stared into the giant lizard’s eyes.

“Very unimaginative of you, thinking of me as a lizard.” The dragon’s tail swept up Kerr’s calf, raising his pant leg as it did. “I’ve never eaten a garm,” he said, casually, almost detached. “Of course, I haven’t eaten much, not since being trapped here. It’s part of the plan you understand. Can’t just have a dragon guarding the prize, it has to be a half-starved one.”

Kerr eyed the giant silver body beside him. The creature showed no sign of malnutrition.

“It’s the magic,” the dragon offered. He breathed out, let a thin line of cold shoot from his mouth, trickle over his body. The silver scales seemed to frost over, to crackle and dance as he flexed his neck. “I am hungry, though—very, very hungry.” He swung his neck back toward Kerr and stared at the garm with an impenetrable gaze.

“What are you hungry for, dragon?” Kerr squared his shoulders, ignoring the tail snapping against the outside of his calf.

The dragon smiled, his eyes tilting and his nostrils angling upward with the grimace. “A heart. A witch’s heart. Can you bring me one, garm? If you can, if you’ll promise me one, maybe I’ll let you pass, maybe I’ll even help you free your furry playmates.”

Kerr tried to stop his mind from flitting, from picturing Heather as he had last seen her, from experiencing the warmth mere thoughts of her brought him. “I can’t. I don’t have one to give.”

“You lie!” the dragon roared. Cold surged from his mouth, reflected off his scales. The temperature plummeted. Kerr’s body began to tremble; his lungs worked to pull in the frigid air. The crowded space turned to a freezer, continued to grow colder as the dragon raged and sputtered.

Kerr, with no other option, focused on the door behind the creature and attempted to shimmer again. This time the dragon was lost in his anger, busy spewing angry words and spats of ice. He didn’t notice the garm disappearing from beside him—or didn’t care. His tail slammed into the wall where Kerr had been. He tried to turn then, to lunge toward the garm, but Kerr had already shimmered. He was too far past the small space the dragon could reach without moving his entire body. The most the dragon could do was twist his neck and shoot ice at the space where Kerr materialized. A blast hit the door, shattering on the metal. Kerr jumped back, the key he prayed would fit in the lock grasped in his hand.

Kerr’s clothing was stiff with frost, clung to him when his warmer body touched the colder cloth, making it hard for him to dodge the ice-balls the dragon continued to spit in his direction. A stream of cold mist colored the air beside him, froze the ends of his hair until pieces fell at his feet. He held his breath, waiting for the spat of ice and mist to pass before pulling air into his lungs. The space was clogged with cold now. His lungs seemed to pull in on themselves with each breath. He kept his breaths shallow to keep out as much of the cold as he could manage.

The dragon’s tail smacked into the wall, then the ceiling. A chunk of earth tumbled from above, landing on the dragon’s back. The dragon froze, then his tail started to twitch again. He raised it, slammed it over and over into the wall and ceiling. More debris fell from above. Kerr ignored him, and tried to step closer to the door. The dragon pulled in a breath, his body expanding, pressing against Kerr, knocking him off balance. He teetered, but didn’t fall. He pressed a hand against the dragon to steady himself.

The dragon halted again, then with a chuckle began shoving his body backward, eating up the space between his body and the door. He had missed Kerr with his tail and his ice, but there would be no missing when he pressed his weight to the wall—when Kerr was trapped between the dragon and the door. Even a forandre couldn’t survive that.

The space was disappearing fast. The dragon did a little jump, jolted Kerr and moved himself backward at the same time. Within seconds there would be no space left.

Kerr threw himself toward the door and grabbed the doorknob to keep from falling. On his knees, he shoved the first key into the lock and turned.

“Heart, heart, heart. Bring me one and I’ll let you live,” the dragon chanted.

The key clicked, the lock moved and the door swung open. The dragon hopped again. His silver body, glimmering with cold, shoved against Kerr—shot him through the now open doorway.

Kerr skidded across the dirt, landing on his hands and knees. His body heaving, he glanced over his shoulder at the body now completely sealing off the doorway. “So, you got inside, little wolf. How, oh how, will you get out? I can’t shimmer, but I can keep you from doing so. You can’t shimmer through me, not if I don’t want you to.” The dragon chuckled. Then his body pressed so tightly against the opening, silver scales bulged into the space, he fell silent. Nothing but the sound of him breathing, of the faint crackling of his exhalations muffled by his form and the wall, let Kerr know he was still alive…and waiting.

K err stood, shook off the sense of disquiet that the dragon’s words caused and assessed where his journey had brought him. The room was dark, but more a muted intentional dark than the well dark he’d experienced in the tunnel—what in another situation he might call “mood lighting.” And it was quiet, but not completely so. Low and soft, he could hear breaths—deep, rough breaths. The sound pulled his mind away from the dragon and focused him on why he was here, but it was the smell, the undeniable scent of pine and outdoors that made his heart thump harder in his chest.

He moved forward, padding so softly he made no sound at all, or nothing that could be heard over the breathing. Six feet in he stopped, reassessed. His eyes had grown accustomed to the dark, or he thought they had—he could see the walls surrounding him—but he could see no sign of the garm, no indication that anyone but he was in the room. He strode to each corner, palmed his way around the cell—nothing but smooth wall. Where were they?

The dragon snorted; his body bulged through the doorway, scales popping outward. The temperature of the space dropped ten degrees. Kerr ignored the cold, focused on what he wasn’t seeing.

They were here. He knew it. He could smell them, hear them, feel their energy. Why couldn’t he see them? He shook his head, rubbed his hands over his eyes. Still nothing. With a frown, he let out a breath. It fogged in front of him. He paused, breathed again…another cloud formed in front of his face.

The cold, he could use it. He turned and stared at the silver scales poking into the room. If he could provoke him…

“I still hear you, garm,” the dragon muttered. “You won’t share your witch’s heart. Why should I help you save it?”

Kerr fisted his hands, heard his knuckles pop. The dragon was right; he had a witch’s heart, but it wasn’t just a witch’s heart he held. It was Heather’s; he wouldn’t want any other’s. He prayed the dragon was the same.

“What if I could fix things so you could hunt your own witch? Find the heart you truly want?” He didn’t stop to ponder what this might exactly mean to the dragon…or the witch.

The dragon thumped his tail. Kerr could hear more icicles fall and crash to the floor. “And how would one little forandre do that?” he asked.

“Not one, fifty,” Kerr replied.

“Fifty.” The dragon snorted. “A midnight snack.”

Despite the dragon’s act of disinterest, Kerr could see his breathing had stilled. He was listening, carefully. “Garm shimmer. You saw me,” Kerr said.

Another thump of the tail. “I’m one hundred times your size,” the dragon said.

“And there are fifty of us.” Kerr folded his arms over his chest, let his confidence that he and the other rogues could shimmer the dragon free of his prison shine in his mind.

The tail stilled. Kerr could hear the dragon shifting, pulling his body away from the door. “How can I believe you? How do I know you won’t try to shimmer off and leave me here?” he asked.

Kerr didn’t bother stating the obvious, that the dragon could read his mind, would know if Kerr planned to deceive him. The dragon could argue that Kerr was just one garm, that he’d have to trust the others, too, and while Kerr would stake his life on the rogues following his lead, he didn’t need to make the argument. He had other ammunition. “These garm were tricked, stuck down here just like you.”

“So?” The dragon sounded bored now, but he shifted again, managing this time to twist his neck so he could peer at Kerr with one silver-blue eye.

“I haven’t told you where we would take you.” Then he opened his mind, let the dragon see exactly what he had in mind.

The dragon was silent for a second, then Kerr heard his mouth open. Ice crackled as his breath chilled the air around him more. “What do you want me to do?”

Kerr smiled and explained his plan, then while the dragon shifted more, twisted so his face was as close to the door as he could manage, Kerr moved to the center of the room, focused on where he was sure he heard breathing, smelled garm. “Now,” he yelled.

The dragon breathed out. The temperature in the space plummeted. Frost covered every surface, including Kerr. He shimmered in place, leaving his icy covering behind. His hands ached from the cold. He flexed and unflexed them, striding forward as he did. A garm breathed out, Kerr spun toward the noise, saw the telltale cloud of smoky breath hanging from the ceiling, saw lines of ice forming where breath hit glass and the round frost-free area where paws pressed against whatever invisible case the elves had hung overhead.

Kerr jumped up. His hands smacked against glass, cold smooth and a relief to feel. His heart began to beat faster, to warm his body despite the cold.

He searched the ground. Grabbed a hunk of ice that had fallen from the top of the doorway and threw it at the glass. It hit and rebounded back to the floor, smashing into tiny ice bits, but the case didn’t break or even crack—at least not that Kerr could see.

He cursed. He’d found them, but now, how to get them out?

“Not much on dragon lore are you, garm?” the dragon asked, his one visible eye focused on Kerr. “Or is it a lack of basic science knowledge?” He breathed out.

Warm air blew across Kerr’s face. He frowned and glanced at the dragon.

“Everyone knows…” the dragon stated. “…dragons breathe fire.” He inhaled, then exhaled through his mouth. Fire shot from his lips. Kerr dropped to the floor, felt the flames lap over his back, smelled his clothing and hair singe.

“And even more people know that if you get something hot, then cold…” He breathed again, this time the cold burst Kerr had come to expect blasted out of his lungs. Kerr, covered in sweat from the previous explosion, began to shiver. He heard something crack, assumed it was his teeth clacking together. Then another crack—louder and most definitely not from his body—sounded above. He rolled over and stared at the ceiling. “…it breaks,” the dragon finished.

The crack changed to a clamor of pops and snaps, then finally a deafening shatter. Bits of glass began to shower Kerr from above. He raised his arm to shield his face, just as something large and wolf-shaped slammed on top of him. The sound of fifty other bodies thumping onto the floor quickly followed.

He looked up. The dragon cocked a brow. “Time to fry some elf ass. I’m ready when you are.”

 

Heather woke in the Jager Headquarters courtyard. The sun, even hidden behind the ever-present clouds, warmed her skin. The back of her head ached. She pressed two fingers to the spot and felt a lump and a sticky gash. She winced.

“She’s awake.”

Someone moved beside her. Feet, clad in simple thin-soled leather shoes, closed in on her. She squinted, tried to sit—to sense magic around her, pull it in so she could spew it back out.

“Pin her,” the same voice called out. A metal rod, forked at the end, pressed against her throat. An elf, burlier than the rest, leaned his weight on it.

She kicked with her legs, wrapped her hands around the rod and tried to force it off her neck, but she was weak, unable to do more than helplessly flail her legs and tug at the rod.

“So, tell me, witch.” Marina strode forward, her gold-and-turquoise tunic so bright to Heather’s eyes she raised a hand to shield them from the sight.

Marina laughed as if to a child. “Can’t hide that way.” She paced around Heather’s head and came to a stop on her left side, staring down at her. “Tell me, is Amma in you? I can help you, you know.” She slipped a hand under her tunic. Heather’s stomach clenched. She knew what the elf leader planned to pull out, what she planned to do.

Marina’s hand inched into view. Heather bucked her body, or tried to. Her energy was sapped and she seemed to be growing weaker.

“It’s the pole,” Amma murmured. “Elvin version of a dowsing rod—it actually dowses, slackens energy. You still have your powers, and mine. You’re just being slowed down, can’t gather them together.”

Heather opened her mouth to start to ask what she could do to fight the energy-draining pole.

Marina leaned forward, the box fully visible, clasped in her hand. “So, is Amma in there?” Her gaze pierced into Heather and made her want to squirm and scream, but there was no one there to help her. She clamped her lips closed.

“Won’t hurt to try.” Marina flipped the lid open and reached two slender fingers inside.

The space around them tingled with magic. Heather tingled with magic. At first she thought Marina had done something to create the surge in power. Then she saw the Jager leader’s face, saw her body turn, the box still in her hand.

“Pull in the power,” Amma screamed inside her head. Without thinking more about the source, Heather complied. Soaked in energy until her body shuddered with it, until she thought it might explode out of her.

She grabbed the rod with both hands, let magic burst from her hands. The metal glowed. The elf holding it cursed, dropped the rod and jumped back.

Heather leaped to her feet, and kicked the offending rod across the courtyard. She watched as it spun over the cobblestoned ground, toward a mass of sparkling air—air that solidified as she watched, turned from waves to a massive body of silver and blue.

She stepped back, not believing what she was seeing. The elves stepped back with her. Marina cursed, clenching her fists at her side.

The body materialized completely. A long neck protruded from the silver body and tiny spikes or horns jutted from the head. Eyes so blue and cold they sent a chill up Heather’s spine, stared at her, then moved on, locking on to Marina, before skipping back to Heather.

“Your heart,” a voice said in her head. She jumped, looked around to see from where the sound had originated. The beast—a dragon her mind finally acknowledged—unbelievable as it was, arched a brow and glanced down. Kerr, one hand pressed against the dragon’s leg, didn’t reply, just shimmered.

Within seconds, he was beside her, but in that tiny bit of time she realized he wasn’t alone—that also surrounding the dragon were the rogues, naked and thin, but alive.

He’d done it. He’d freed them.

The dragon whished his tail. Rogues leaped to avoid being hit. The air beside her turned to waves and Kerr wrapped a hand around her arm, shimmered them both. In seconds she was on the other side of the courtyard, the dragon standing between her and the Jagers.

Her fingers trembled. She could feel Amma trembling inside her, eager to join the fight, but the dragon had the battle under control. He breathed ice then fire, shooting first one then the other in succession so quickly the elves weren’t able to keep up, to plan a defense. A wagon burst into flames; a horse trough exploded as the water inside froze and expanded. Bits of metal and wood shot around the courtyard.

Marina screamed orders at the elves near her, jerked what appeared to be a cell phone from her pocket and shouted more into it.

“She’s calling for the Jagers in the dungeon,” Kerr murmured. He held up a hand and signaled the other rogues. As a group they shimmered to stand beside him and Heather. One male stayed behind, crossed his arms over his chest and watched. Only Heather seemed to notice him, then he shimmered, too, solidified next to Kerr.

“We should join the dragon,” he said, his voice grim and tired, but angry. “Finish them.”

Kerr turned on him. “You know the plan. We can get the witches out now, get them safe. Later we can come back, if you still need vengeance.”

The other male turned so his body was squared to Kerr’s, held his gaze. He was bigger than the other males, broader, less rangy. “Oh, I’ll need it.”

Heather could feel the tension between the two, knew Amma agreed with the challenger, wanted to destroy every elf in Gunngar, all of the nine worlds, almost as much as she wanted her freedom.

Almost.

The witch inside Heather held her tongue, did little more than snarl as the main door to headquarters flew open and elves poured out. Heather gripped Kerr’s arm tighter, closed her eyes and murmured a prayer that they’d find everyone inside the dungeon safe.

Her body began to tingle, the air around her, too. She kept her eyes closed, not opening them again until she felt the cold air of the dungeon, smelled the dank earth out of which it had been dug.

 

The dungeon was a mass of swirling bodies, storming voices and magic. Kerr pushed Heather behind him as soon as they solidified. Arn stood near the stairs, swinging chains around his head. The metal links smacked into the stone walls, sending chinks of rock pattering to the ground. Lena, Dagmar and Dorrit weren’t far away, each with a weapon in hand.

Only the female with the pale eyes, the one who had disturbed him with her strange words, seemed aware most of the elves had fled, that they were battling nonexistent enemies.

“Amma says the elves did something to them, blew some kind of powder or something in here. It has them confused.” Heather let air out of her lungs. Her jaw was clenched; the skin on her knuckles glowed white.

She was fighting to control the other witch, perhaps fighting the powder, too. Kerr found her hand with his; her fingers opened for his. He slipped his through, until their hands were laced together, their palms pressed together. He wished he could give her strength as easily—that all the strength he had would somehow seep from him into her.

“How do we stop them?” he asked. They couldn’t wait for long. The elves might come back at any time. The dragon had agreed to divert them, but hadn’t said for how long. Not that Kerr could imagine where else the creature would have to go, but perhaps the dragon wasn’t trapped like the rest of them. There were many reasons dragons were feared across the nine worlds. Not knowing exactly what they could do, what powers they had, was certainly one reason to be wary.

“We don’t,” Heather replied. “Amma says it will wear off within the next ten minutes, if they’re in clean air.”

“And trapped in here?” Kerr shook his head. “Too long.”

A petite witch swirled toward them; blue ribbons of power curled from her fingertips. Kerr nodded to Raf, the hellhound who had been imprisoned with the rogues, who had been arguing with Kerr since he’d freed him. The dark-haired male leaped forward and grabbed the witch in a bear hug. Power popped and snapped. She shifted her hand. Magic danced from her fingers, seared across the hellhound’s naked leg, leaving a raised welt in its wake. Raf’s expression never changed. He just tightened his grip and shimmered. Within seconds he was back.

“One down,” Kerr murmured, acknowledging Raf’s reappearance with a nod. Then he signaled the rogues. They moved forward, ducking the power that streamed from the witches around them and knocking axes from the hands of the dwarves.

Raf grabbed Dagmar by the waist. She shifted the grip on her ax to a two-handed hold, slammed it backward like a crazed golfer. The dull end of the ax slammed into the hellhound’s head. He stumbled but didn’t let go, shimmered instead.

When Raf reappeared this time, Kerr grabbed Heather’s hand, shoved it into his. “Get her out of here,” he ordered. He would have liked to have taken her himself, but he needed to make sure all the Bevarers escaped, and Raf, difficult though he was, had proven himself.

Heather yelled as Raf’s fingers closed around her wrist, but she smiled, too. Amma again—happy to leave the dungeon and other witches behind—warring with Heather, who wanted to stay to make sure the females she thought of as friends were safe.

Kerr ignored both, turned his back as Raf shimmered away with her. She would be safer at the portal. He couldn’t risk her staying here, not without knowing where the Jagers were or if the dragon had left. She’d be safer at the portal, he repeated to himself.

Arn bounded forward, the chain still circling. Kerr ducked, letting the metal links zing over his head, then charged the shorter but stockier male. Arn grunted and bent at the waist. The heavy links thudded onto Kerr’s back. He ignored the throb of pain, ignored Arn’s fists as they collided with his cheek. He grabbed the tavern owner by the ears and pummeled his head into the stone floor. Arn’s eyes dimmed, then closed. Kerr jumped from his body and motioned to another garm. Two seconds later, Arn was gone, too. Over and over Kerr and the other garm repeated the process until the dungeon was empty.

Letting out a relieved breath, Kerr nodded to the rogues and as one, they shimmered.

H eather stood next to the portal—or Amma did, in Heather’s body. The witch had been drawn to the stone arch that marked the ancient doorway and Heather had been unable to pull away.

It was lighter now than it had been when Kerr had shimmered them here before. At the time she hadn’t even realized she was standing next to the portal—only feet from it, but with the sun up, such as it was in Gunngar, the archway that marked it was impossible to miss.

The stone structure sat in the open, surrounded by meadow. There was a path leading from one side where thousands of travelers had walked through, having been free to come and go. Heather, her arms wrapped around her body for warmth, scuffed her foot over the time-compacted dirt.

“The power’s still here,” Amma murmured. “The elf lords didn’t destroy it, just shut it off or diverted it somehow.” Amma reached out—Heather reached out her hand before she realized she had slipped and let Amma gain control. She jerked her hand back to her side, forced her fingers to cling to her pant leg instead.

“Can the garm restart it?” Amma whispered. Heather could feel her longing, a desire so deep Heather almost crumpled to her knees under the weight of it. She focused on the forest a few yards away. Dark and ominous, it seemed like a much more fitting setting for their mission than the meadow in which she stood.

The air beside them began to sparkle and Heather’s skin to tingle—the sign of magic, the garm shimmering. As the males formed one by one, she pulled her gaze from the pines, searching each face, each form.

A hand skimmed down her back and a knot inside her loosened. Kerr was here, safe. She wanted to spin in his arms, be happy, but she couldn’t. Their journey was nowhere near over, and whether Kerr admitted it to himself or not, the odds were against her ever leaving Gunngar as long as Amma was inside her.

Kerr, his hand resting on the small of her back, whispered against her hair. “How are you?”

She leaned against him, let his warmth and strength soak into her, like the magic from his shimmer had. He’d gotten dressed somewhere along the way—all the males had. A breeze caught her hair, lifted it from her neck.

“They’ve settled down.” She waved at the Bevarers collapsed on the grass around them. Dagmar and Dorrit still clung to their weapons. Lena still held as many children as she could scoop toward her, and Arn still scowled. Kerr frowned, and started to speak, to restate his question, Heather guessed, but Arn stumbled to his feet and staggered over, his gait unsteady and his face dark. “So, we’re here. Now what?”

Kerr didn’t arch a brow at the tavern owner’s gruff question or his lack of gratitude for being saved from the dungeon, but his fingers did tense against Heather’s back.

“Svartalfar,” Amma commented. “At least they’re good for entertainment. Will the garm knock him down to size?” Heather could feel the spark of interest that flared inside Amma. Like a child waiting for the first fireworks to explode on the Fourth of July. Heather exhaled through her nose, trying to ignore the witch inside her. Amma’s perverse view of the world and the beings around them was beginning to tire her.

To Amma’s disappointment, Kerr didn’t reply to the dark elf. He ran his hand one more time down Heather’s spine, then turned to the rogues and began yelling out orders and assignments.

Heather sighed, glad Arn’s sunny disposition had saved her from Kerr’s question. She wasn’t feeling well. While the rest of the group looked exhausted, Heather was beginning to feel as if the life had actually been sucked out of her. She glanced at a few of the older witches, to see if the experience in the dungeon had been as hard on them. They looked worn, most of them sitting, leaning against a tree or rock if one was nearby, but they also had a spark in their eyes as they watched the garm disperse.

Heather swallowed—shook her head a little. She was young, had no excuse for how she felt—perhaps it had something to do with Amma.

The garm began to split into groups, one shimmering off in search of food and shelter, or something to construct a shelter, one to serve as a lookout and one to approach the portal.

Heather started to move away, to go sit next to Lena. She’d been worried about the other woman, was glad to see her here looking well. But Amma hardened inside her, kept Heather from bending her knees. She murmured a curse. Kerr turned, concern in his eyes. She smiled, waited for him to turn back to the rogues, then fisted her hand and smacked it against her own leg.

“We’ll just be in the way here,” she muttered, smacking her leg again. Amma muttered back, but released her hold on Heather’s body.

Relieved, Heather slid to the ground next to Lena. Two of the children flopped onto Heather’s lap. She followed Lena’s lead, stroking their hair as she watched Kerr and three other garm investigate the portal.

“Do you think they can do it?” Lena asked. Her soothing fingers, partially hidden in a small boy’s yellow-blond hair, paused.

“They’ve done it before. Back in the human world.” Heather didn’t add that it hadn’t been easy or that in the process the garm had unleashed creatures Heather had never dreamed existed—never wanted to see again.

“So, they have experience.” Lena’s fingers resumed their strokes.

“Yeah, experience.” Heather stared at Kerr. His back was to her, which in some ways made him seem even stronger, even more in control. As if feeling her eyes on him, he turned. His gaze was intense, unwavering. His eyes, his entire body, told her how badly he wanted this, that he wouldn’t give up, not until all the witches were safe.

“Us first,” Amma murmured.

Heather moved her hand to her neck, checking to make sure the words didn’t come from her throat. It was getting harder and harder to fight. She was so tired.

Lena frowned. “Are you all right?”

Heather glanced at her, then down at the child in her lap. “I’m fine, just tired.”

The rest of the day was spent pretty much like that—sitting talking, or not talking, and watching the garm. The food party came back and some of the Bevarers started a fire for cooking. The children seemed happy, rolled and tussled across the ground. Lena supplied them with rocks and sticks, which they used for rustic games of hopscotch and something akin to golf.

And Heather sat, fought her own exhaustion and Amma. The other witch was relentless, pressuring Heather to move closer to the portal, to make sure she was in position to be taken through first.

“If the Jagers arrive, they’ll take you first. They know now. Marina knows.”

Heather ignored her, or tried to. Finally, when she thought she could stand it no longer, Kerr approached. She stood and tried to look alert.

“They’ve built a lean-to. It’s not much, but hopefully, it won’t have to last us long.” He pointed toward the forest Heather had been staring at when he arrived. She shivered. It looked even darker now, but the meadow was growing darker, too. The sun was setting. They’d been there how long? And nothing. She hadn’t seen any sign the garm had got the portal working.

“The portal…?” she asked.

He slipped his arms around her, pulled her to his chest. “Nothing. We don’t know what the elf lords have done to it. The magic is still there, but we can’t seem to harness it. It’s…” He paused. “…slippery.”

“But you’ll get it,” she murmured, her heart sinking a bit as she did. She wanted the witches to be freed, wanted Gunngar to be free, but once the portal was operating, and the Bevarers had escaped, she’d be alone.

She turned in his arms, wrapped her arms around his waist and pressed her cheek to his chest. “I want to stay here tonight,” she whispered.

He stiffened, then pulled her even closer. “You’ll sleep better in the shelter, and I’m not going to be sleeping at all. We’re going to get the portal open. We won’t stop until we do. We can’t.”

Because the Jagers would be coming. He didn’t say it, but she knew that was what he was thinking. They’d be looking for the Bevarers, the witches and the garm, and when they didn’t find them in the city, they’d look in the country. Eventually, Marina would think of the portal, and send troops.

Still, she didn’t want to go to the forest, didn’t want that much space between her and Kerr. “I don’t care,” she replied.

He didn’t say anything, just tilted her face up with two fingers and pressed his lips to hers. For a second everything went away—Amma, her fear, everything. It was just her and Kerr standing in a meadow, the wind drifting around them, bringing with it the smell of pine and flowers.

For just a second the world was perfect.

 

Kerr worked through the night, taking breaks to check on Heather. She’d curled into a ball, didn’t stir, not until the sun broke the horizon. By then he’d almost given up on getting the portal to work. He sat down beside her, ran his fingers over her hair.

“You’ll do it,” she murmured.

He didn’t reply, just kept stroking her hair. There had to be a way to open the portal. And it had to be soon.

She sat up, kissed him. Her mouth was warm, her body soft against his. He wanted to lie down in the grass with her, spend the day there, just the two of them. But they weren’t on a picnic. He could almost hear the hooves of the Jagers’ horses beating against the ground. Depending on how long the dragon held them off, they’d had time to get here by now.

His hand drifted from Heather’s hair to her side. His thumb grazed over her abdomen.

He had to open the portal; the thought was suddenly stronger—pounding into him just like the hooves he imagined he could hear.

He was a garm. Garm had operated portals for millennia. A bunch of elves, no matter how powerful, couldn’t stop him.

 

Kerr strode to the portal, walked around it, studied every aspect. He had figured out the problem early on, within hours actually, but every time he tried to fix it, something slithered past him, stopped him from quite grasping hold of the energy in order to open the doorway.

What was different? What had the elf lords done?

Elves. Elf magic. They didn’t have any of their own, not that they could use like a witch could. But they could put magic into objects—like the needle and the stone that had held Amma.

He glanced at Heather. She was standing, watching him, looking as if she wanted to join him, but was stopping herself. Seeing her increased his resolve and his excitement. He was on the right track.

“Raf,” he called to the hellhound who was standing a few feet away, drinking from a metal cup and a pail filled with water. “Get the others. We’re taking this down.” He looked back at the arch. Somewhere hidden in those rocks was an object embedded with elf magic. He just had to find it.

As the group of garm worked to dismantle the top part of the arch, Arn stormed forward. “What are you doing?” he demanded.

Kerr’s instinct was to ignore the tavern owner. He was tired of his maneuvering and lies.

Arn grabbed Kerr by the arm. Kerr turned, stared the other male in the eye. “Step back,” he murmured.

Arn hesitated, then dropped his hand. “The portal. Why are you doing…?” He jumped back as the first massive stone tumbled from the top of the arch.

“Fixing it,” Kerr replied. He bent, rolled the stone over and over, inspecting every inch to make sure no hole had been drilled into it, no object hidden inside. The rock was smooth, unmarred.

Another stone hit the dirt beside him. He repeated the process. Arn made a sound deep in his throat. “You’re tearing it down. How will that fix it?” His face had darkened, but he kept his hands to himself, his body in its own space.

Kerr stood. “The archway is just an archway. The portal isn’t dependent on it. It existed long before some being chose to mark it with this.” He patted one of the pillars.

Arn frowned. “Still, we have no time to be wasted playing—”

Tired of explaining himself, Kerr turned. “We aren’t playing. The elf lords shut it down. How did they do that, magic? They have none of their own. They have to manipulate it with an object.”

Arn pulled back, understanding crossing his features. “All this time, we could have come here—”

“Found whatever they left behind, and fixed it ourselves,” Lena completed, her gaze focused on the tower. She and Heather stood behind him. Kerr had been so caught up in his examination of the stones and his conversation with Arn he hadn’t noticed their approach. It was an understandable slip for anyone but a garm. A garm couldn’t afford to be so distracted—garm had to always be vigilant. Guarding was what they did.

The little slip unsettled him. He pulled in a breath, his nostrils flaring. What else had he missed? He let his gaze wander over the meadow, down to the forest where the shelter the other garm had built was barely visible. Everything seemed fine, calm…then he listened, holding up a hand when Arn took a breath and started to talk.

He knew instantly he’d slipped again, and this time in a major way. The pounding he’d heard, sensed maybe, was real. The Jagers were coming, riding on their horses, and they were close.

He spun, yelled at the garm dismantling the archway. “Faster. The Jagers are coming.”

Arn paled, glanced at Heather and Lena. Kerr ignored him, started searching the parts of the archway he could see, although he didn’t think it would be that easy—that the elf lords would have hidden their booby trap better than that.

Another rock hit the ground, then another. Arn started scanning them, too. Lena following behind him, checking his work. Heather stepped forward, both brows raised. “Did you not think to ask my help?”

By the accent and how Heather’s body swayed, confidently, coyly, he knew the female speaking to him through Heather’s lips wasn’t his lover. Of all times…Amma had decided to come out.

He grabbed the next rock, flipped it around.

Amma placed a hand on his. There was no tingle of awareness, no desire to pull Heather’s body close. He looked up, stared into the eyes he loved. If Heather was still in there, she’d stepped aside, or been shoved aside, because he wasn’t looking at her. He was staring into a cold and cunning gaze that sent a chill down his spine.

“Who is the best at sensing magic? Who depends on pulling it in to have magic of their own?” she asked. Her fingers stroked the back of his hand. He forced himself not to move. As much as her touch repelled him, she was in Heather. It would be Heather’s fingers he was brushing aside.

“A witch?” He arched a brow, couldn’t stop himself from showing that tiny bit of disrespect. “But Heather didn’t sense the magic in the stone. She didn’t know you were inside it.”

“The Svartalfar there told her there was magic in the stone. Discovering it wouldn’t have been reason for alarm. Besides, that was before I was inside her.”

Another rock tumbled from above, landed inches from them. Neither moved.

“Because you—” he began.

“I am half elf. The only elfin witch in existence as far as I know. If anyone can find what’s blocking the portal, it’s me. I’m a magical bloodhound.” Her lips curving, she lifted one shoulder.

He glanced over his shoulder at the archway. Most of it was down, only six or so stones remained on each side. He could refuse her help, or try to, but there was really no reason. The witch wanted the portal to work as badly as he did.

He stood and stepped aside.

She ran her hands over the stones that were still piled one on top of each other. She frowned, then glanced at the ones littering the ground.

“You must not have been too thorough.” She waltzed between them, bending at the waist to brush her fingers over their tops. Frowned again, then folded her arms over her chest. She stared back at the pillars. Her toe began to tap.

Kerr wanted to gloat, wanted to be happy with her failure, but he couldn’t because it was his failure, too. He raised his hand, ready to gesture to the garm and Raf who had paused in their dismantling, but as he did he heard something—hooves. The Jagers were closer. He turned. On the horizon, racing toward them, was a stampede of horses—and on each of their backs, dressed in the Jager colors of turquoise and gold, was an elf.

His jaw tightening, he threw his hand up, but toward the forest, where the other garm waited. His intensity must have shown. Two shimmered instantly to his side.

“Take the witches somewhere else. I don’t care where—just far away.”

The garm nodded, but Lena stepped in front of them. “Not yet. There’s still time.”

Kerr looked past her to the Jagers hurtling toward them. She was right, there was time. A shimmer took seconds—if everyone was organized.

He barked out new orders, told the garm to gather everyone, to stand by, ready to shimmer.

Then he turned back to the archway, started pushing against the remaining stones.

“Wait.” Amma this time, taking a step forward, directly between the two pillars. She smiled, pleasure snapped behind her eyes. “Get a stick. We’ve been thinking about this all wrong. The archway is just decoration. The portal is here…” She stamped her foot. “…in the ground.”

Kerr stared at the packed earth. Of course. He’d told Arn as much—that the archway was purely decorative. The elf lords wouldn’t have hidden their object there; it might not even have worked if they had.

He motioned to the other garm, they came running. While they dug, Kerr kept his gaze on the Jagers.

“Here.” Raf stood, a metal lock in his hands.

Before he could stop her, Amma had stepped forward, taken the object. “Elves are so literal,” she murmured.

Raf frowned. “Do we need to unlock it?”

Amma shrugged. “Shouldn’t have to. Not if you get it far enough away.”

Raf looked at Kerr. “I think I know the perfect place for this.” Then he shimmered.

Kerr and the others immediately set to work testing the portal. One twist of the energy that operated it and the portal was humming. He stepped back, stared at Amma, hoping Heather was still somewhere inside, that she’d show herself. “It’s working.”

The Jagers were still some distance away, but not far enough for Kerr’s comfort. He didn’t waste time, started channeling witches and Bevarers through the portal.

“Where are we going?” Lena asked, a child pressed against each of her legs.

Kerr dropped his hand to ruffle a small boy’s hair, then caught the female’s gaze. “I don’t know. There’s no time to be choosy. Should be the last place someone traveled from.”

“Alfheim,” Amma murmured, edging forward.

Kerr held out an arm, stopping her from moving closer. The line moved quickly, but so did the Jagers. He ushered Lena through, then Arn. Dagmar and Dorrit had gone early, with the largest group of children. At the last, as the Jagers were close enough he could feel the ground move with the weight of their horses, it was only garm, Raf and Amma left.

“I’m going,” she stepped forward.

Kerr moved his hand and four garm stepped in front of the portal. “Show Heather,” he ordered.

Amma’s lip curled. “I can blast my way through.”

“You can blast, but you won’t make it through. One of us will grab you first, shimmer you to the farthest reaches of Gunngar. Then we’ll shut down the portal. You’ll never escape. Show Heather.”

Anger flickered behind Amma’s eyes.

Kerr stood tense, waiting. He didn’t know what he would do if Heather didn’t appear. Trust that on the other side, he could bring her back? Leave her here?

Not alone. He wouldn’t do that. If Amma wouldn’t step down, Kerr wouldn’t step through the portal. He’d stay in Gunngar until he figured out a way to free Heather.

He knew letting Amma through was a huge risk, anyway. But Heather staying in Gunngar would be a death sentence. He’d take his chance controlling one witch to save the one he loved.

Amma’s lips thinned, her eyes narrowed and her hands flexed. His back rigid, his stomach clenched, Kerr waited.

“Don’t let her through. She’ll destroy Alfheim, kill millions and you will be responsible,” Marina yelled from the back of her horse. He jerked, hadn’t realized the Jagers were that close, but he didn’t look away from Amma.

She cursed, then wilted. He grabbed her as she fell. “Heather?” he asked, his heart pounding so loud he wasn’t sure he’d be able to hear her answer.

She looked up, her eyes were soft, filled with love. “Send the garm through. Go through yourself.”

He shook her, started to move toward the portal with her.

Magic sizzled from her hands, burned into his skin. He didn’t drop her, but looked down at her, sure Amma had returned, but Heather’s eyes stared up at him.

“I won’t go through.” She shook her head. “Not with Amma inside me.”

The Jagers were close now, too close to stand and argue. He grabbed her again, ignored the searing pain as the arm beneath his hand began to glow. Tears leaked from her eyes. “Don’t make me hurt you. Respect what I want. I won’t go.”

He stopped, confused, unsure what to do. With a curse he motioned for the garm to leave. “The witches may need you.” Most had followed his orders, but garm lived to guard, so Raf and a few others stood rock solid where they were.

Raf reached out, started to grab Heather, too.

“No!” she screamed. “You don’t know what she’s capable of. I can’t be responsible for that.” She broke free, started running.

Marina yelled.

Kerr cursed and tackled Heather as she sprinted across the meadow. He started to shimmer, to get her away from the Jager at least, but before he could, something heavy and cloying fell on top of them, forced them to the earth.

He shimmered anyway, or tried to. His body went through its normal routine. He felt the tingle, pictured in his mind where he wanted to go—a basically unpopulated patch of Gunngar he’d seen on the map—but neither he, nor Heather, made it anywhere. When they solidified they were still where they had started.

He tried again, and again, until Heather, her face pale, pressed fingers to his chest. “It’s no good. We’re in some kind of net. It must be stopping you from shimmering.” Her eyes were hollow, lost. She closed them and whispered, “Sorry. I’m so sorry.” Then before he could think, Marina had leaped from her horse and stood over them, a look of pure joy lighting her face.

T he net that had dropped on Heather and Kerr was almost transparent, but Heather could feel it on her skin, feel it thickening the air that was trapped under it, air she and Kerr had to breathe. She couldn’t fathom what the elves had made it from. Lying under it was like being trapped in a cloud, hot and humid.

She’d closed her eyes because she couldn’t bare to look at Kerr, to face that he was trapped with her. She should have run before, not even come to the portal, but he wouldn’t have allowed that. Her only hope had been to wait until the last minute—force him to go through the portal without her when everyone else was safe, when there would be no other option for him except to leave her behind. But somehow that hadn’t worked out, not as she’d imagined it in her head.

She’d let Amma keep control for too long, but without the witch’s help the garm might not have opened the portal at all…. Heather continued to berate herself, ignoring the sound of elves dismounting from their horses. She didn’t open her eyes until she felt Kerr’s arms, which were still wrapped around her, tense.

Marina stood next to them, her face alight with joy, like she was a child who’d come across an unexpected treat.

And in her hand was a tiny black box.

“No,” Amma murmured. Heather hadn’t realized the other witch had worked her way back up to the surface again, but she shared her dread.

Kerr’s arms tightened around her. He tried to shimmer again, but the net’s magic held. Heather twisted, aimed her hands toward the elf. Twin beams of energy surged from her palms, hit the net and sizzled, dissipated like drops of water on an overheated fry pan.

Kerr cursed, surged to his feet and lunged at Marina, but she simply stepped back and smiled more. “Hold him,” she called and ten elves landed on Kerr’s back. He continued to fight, to spin. He seemed to ignore the beings clinging to him like burrs. He stayed one hundred percent focused on keeping his body between Heather and the Jager leader. But the elves had the upper hand. The net began to shrink, to tighten around Kerr until his arms were pinned to his side, until Heather began to panic that he couldn’t breathe, that she’d have to stand there and watch him gasp for breath if she didn’t give in to Marina, let the elf pierce her with the needle.

So, she’d go to sleep. Better that than losing Kerr. Disney’s Sleeping Beauty survived, perhaps Heather would, too.

As Marina stepped closer, Heather didn’t let herself look at Kerr, knew seeing the anger and despair in his eyes would hurt too much. He would blame himself for this, but it wasn’t his fault.

At the last second, before the silver tip of the needle pricked her skin, she looked up, mouthed the words…“I love you.”

Then the world around her slowed. The needle, which had plunged into her skin so quickly, took a lifetime to pull back out. Millimeter by millimeter the needle seemed to grow in length as Marina tugged it from Heather’s skin. When it was finally free, Heather took a breath, started to relax. She was still alert, aware of what was happening around her.

As if reading her mind, Marina smiled, and began rolling the needle between her thumb and finger, like she was twisting an invisible thread around the tiny piece of metal. Heather’s breath seemed to stop. She felt a tug, then another. Amma cursed and clawed. Heather could feel her struggling, scraping to hold on, but to what?

There was a pop, then another and Heather jerked forward out of her body.

 

Time had passed. Heather knew that somehow. She flexed her hands, or tried to, but she couldn’t feel her fingers. She seemed to have lost the connection to them. She turned her head, but couldn’t tell if she had succeeded. She couldn’t see anything, couldn’t hear anything, at least not in the conventional sense. She knew things were going on around her, that Marina was talking, cooing actually to the needle that was pinched between her finger and thumb, but Heather couldn’t hear her. It was more like she sensed her…felt what she was feeling…but was unable to hear any words, anything.

She thought to reach for her ears to check if they were blocked in some way, but realized she had no hands, no ears, no eyes. She’d lost all her senses and seemed to be existing only as energy, no body that she could control or even feel was her. How could she be herself, Heather, with no physical senses?

She began to panic, her thoughts flitting wildly from one question and possibility to another. Her heart, wherever it was, was it racing with her thoughts? Was she still controlling the all-important organ, even her body. Did she not feel her own actions because of the needle’s prick? If she concentrated on striking out could she? She focused, thought of balling up her fist, tried to remember how it felt to curl her fingers into her palm, dig her nails into her skin.

Her perception of Marina didn’t change, she was still happy, gleeful even, not at all the reaction Heather imagined the elf leader would have had, had she been struck. Heather tried again, this time to just feel herself, be aware of herself. Still she had no sense of her own body. She didn’t know if she was standing, laying on the floor or gone altogether.

She struggled to get her thoughts under control, to beat the panic. Was she dead? Had the needle, instead of sending her to sleep as she’d assumed, killed her? Anxiety surged again.

“Interesting.”

Heather started at the words—Amma’s.

“We’re still bound together. She hasn’t figured that out yet. Thinks we’re in the needle, but we’re not.” The other witch chuckled.

“I can hear you,” Heather murmured.

“Of course, we’re here together. Wherever here is. They’ve moved us,” Amma replied.

“But I can’t hear her…or them.” Heather sensed other lives in the space now—the Jagers.

“The elves.” Heather could feel the curl of Amma’s lip as she said…thought…the word. “Do you feel the others?”

“Others?” Heather started, instantly upset that she’d only had thoughts for herself. Kerr. Was he here? Was he okay? Marina had what she wanted. There was no reason to keep the garm. Would she have let him go?

“Focus,” Amma ordered.

Heather frowned, or the energy equivalent. But then, realizing following Amma’s directions was for now the smart thing to do, the only thing that might tell her something about Kerr, she concentrated and let her consciousness reach out, drift.

“Further,” Amma coaxed.

Heather changed direction, brushed against what she now recognized as Marina’s energy, ignored it, passed the elves, six of them and moved back to where she had started. Then she felt it—two heartbeats, or pulses, she didn’t know how to term what she felt, but she knew someone was there—two someones, two very tiny someones.

Not Kerr. She clenched, frustrated, but the feeling quickly passed. There was something about the little life forces that drew her. She flitted closer.

“Tiny but powerful. Who knew such a weak witch and a garm could create them?” Amma again, sounding impressed and disdainful at the same time.

Heather, busy focusing on the two lives, on trying to decipher what their small size combined with the emotion that had started bubbling inside her when she’d sensed them meant, let Amma’s comments pass, didn’t analyze the other witch’s words.

The energy was smaller than what she’d felt from Marina or the elves, but bigger, too…carried more potential.

“What are they?” she asked. “Fairies?” Did fairies exist? She’d never heard anyone speak of them.

“Fairies,” Amma huffed. Then she made a low humming sound. “Yes, fairies. Good fairies if you approach them correctly. Ask them to pull us back into your body.”

Heather frowned, or thought a frown. “How can they do that? Why would they?” Amma was lying—she knew that instinctively, it was getting harder and harder for the witch to deceive her, but she didn’t know about what. Were the beings she sensed not fairies or was what Amma said not true, could they not help her? If she tried to communicate with them, would they do something to destroy her instead?

She snapped her mind shut, tried to keep from thinking anything else, to keep Amma from knowing what she was thinking.

“It’s impossible. You can’t hide from me. Talk to the fairies. I don’t want you destroyed; I want to be back in your body before the she elf figures out what is happening—how she messed up.”

Heather let herself float for a second, undecided. “You’re still lying to me. Why? And why can’t I read your thoughts?” The questions were more for herself than Amma, but the other witch answered anyway.

“Because I’m me and despite the fact that impressive power has been shooting from your body, it’s my power. You, on your own, are a completely unimpressive witch. I assume that’s why you were able to host me. I can’t imagine any other reason.”

She wasn’t saying anything Heather hadn’t thought herself a thousand times before. Heather chose not to be offended, or at least not to be distracted from her current plight by being offended. “So, why are you lying to me?”

She could feel Amma waiting, weighing her response. “Why wouldn’t I?”

There was truth to the words. Opposite as it seemed, Heather knew that was how Amma would approach things—why tell the truth when a lie would do just as well? It certainly didn’t make Heather trust her.

“Reach for them,” Amma ordered. She was getting tense, nervous.

Heather let her senses expand again, checked on Marina. The elf had finished with her gloating, had moved to a state of calculation. “What is she thinking?” Heather asked, knowing Amma would understand what was happening better than she could and hoping the other witch would have some reason to tell the truth this time.

“She’s too eager, too hungry,” Amma mumbled, then clearer. “Get your—fairies—to help you.”

Heather hesitated, but what Amma had said was true. Marina was eager—like something she desired, had waited for, plotted to get, was now within her grasp. Her attention was on the other elves now, anger, annoyance pointed at them, but her desire and anticipation was the catalyst for everything she did. She wanted the elves to depart, leave her alone with something—Heather’s body? The needle? Heather didn’t know, but she sensed danger, too, realized whatever it was Marina wanted, wasn’t good, for her anyway.

 

Kerr rolled over and groaned. The net was tight around him. He was still unable to shimmer, could barely move. His chest muscles struggled to expand, to push the net far enough away that he could pull air into his lungs.

He was back in the dungeon, on the side of the door where the garm had been kept, but not in their cell. He’d been dumped right past the door, where the path forked into three choices.

Trying to get a better view of the space, he rolled again, knocked into a wall. He grunted.

“You planning on rolling your way through that wall?”

Kerr started.

Two giant ice-blue eyes stared at him with bored disregard. The dragon.

“You didn’t escape,” Kerr said, disappointed somehow. He had liked thinking of the dragon free, didn’t like thinking of anything under Marina’s control. “Will it be fire or ice? Given a choice, I think I’ll take ice. I’ve heard it’s less painful. Besides, I’d rather not go smelling like Sunday dinner.”

The dragon thumped his tail. “Tempting, but I don’t think your friends would be too happy with me.”

Raf and twenty garm stepped into view.

 

Kerr shimmered into the main dungeon. He’d had to leave the dragon behind. He’d come as far as he had by using the alternative entrance, the one the Jagers had used to imprison the troll, who was now free again, too, but the dragon wouldn’t fit in the main dungeon. The garm were waiting on the other side of the now-cracked door. Kerr, in his wolf form, would call to them when and if he needed their help.

He glanced back at the metal-bound door, saw Raf’s dark nose through the three-inch-wide crack. He nodded, then turned and padded lightly down the corridor.

The larger room was empty, but standing outside one cell was a group of elves. Their backs were to him. They were watching something or someone. A few stumbled backward as if hit, knocking into those behind them. They paused, stared at each other as if unsure what to do.

Kerr frowned. What was happening? If Amma were loose, or Heather was battling them, they would have charged surely. An elf turned, his eyes rounding as he spied Kerr.

“We’re made,” Kerr called to Raf and the waiting garm, then shimmered into the middle of the circle of elves. He leaped immediately, grabbing the elf who had seen him by the throat. The smaller being fell under his weight. A gurgling sound erupted from his throat. The Jager blinked up at Kerr, his face pale and fear leaking from every pore. Kerr loosened his jaws. He had no need to kill the elf, just disable him, but adrenaline had pushed him, fear for Heather had pushed him…He stepped back, releasing the elf. The male grabbed his neck with both hands and began shuffling backward, his gaze never leaving Kerr.

“He’s escaping.” Raf turned his nose to the retreating elf. The hellhound’s shaggy, golden coat was stained with blood. His eyes glowed red. An elf lay beneath him, still, lifeless.

Around them elves dropped any pretense of fighting and ran. None looked back, none tried to enter the room they’d been guarding…or standing outside of. Their quick retreat increased Kerr’s curiosity.

He slid his gaze from Raf to the doorway. There were only light murmurs coming from inside.

Then someone, a female, screamed.

Kerr lunged forward and through the opening. Marina kneeled on the floor. Heather lay beside her, as still and lifeless as the elf Raf had downed.

Every hair on Kerr’s body stood up. A growl erupted from his chest and he leaped. He slammed into Marina, knocking her into the wall away from Heather, then spun and sprinted back to his witch, trusting Raf to take over his position and guard the Jager leader.

“Raf? Can you help me? It didn’t work. It should have worked,” Marina babbled behind him.

Kerr didn’t question how the Jager leader knew Raf’s name; he didn’t have time to. He pressed his nose to Heather’s nose. Did he feel air moving in and out? He couldn’t tell, thought he did, but then didn’t. His chest tightened. He ran his nose over her face, stirred her hair. “Heather? Do you hear me?” he spoke in her head or tried to. The words seemed to echo back at him, like he was calling out into a cave.

His tail lowered; his shoulders hunched. “Heather?” he called again.

“Should. Have. Worked.” Marina again, punctuating each word. With a growl, Kerr spun. The Jager leader was slumped against the wall, the silver needle clenched between her fingers. She plunged the metal into her arm, pulled it out, then plunged it in again.

“What is she doing?” Raf, his head lowered, his hackles raised, projected the words into Kerr’s mind.

“I don’t know. She tried to get me to use that needle on Heather. She said it would trap Amma—the witch they’ve been hunting.” Kerr glanced from the needle in Marina’s hand to Heather’s limp form. Horror sent him moving forward.

“What did you do?” he yelled into the Jager leader’s mind. “Undo it now, or by all that is magic I’ll tear you into pieces so small no number of needles will stitch you back together.”

He moved closer, his lips pulled back, his fur rippling with threat. Marina only glanced at him, hunkered lower and began piercing her skin even faster.

Kerr’s gaze zeroed onto the needle. Heather was in there. “Hold her,” he projected to Raf, then shifted. Naked, but back in his human form, he strode to the elf and grabbed her by the wrist. He reached for the needle. Seeing his intention, Marina shrieked and struck out with her free hand. Her palm smacked into his face, stung…sizzled, too. He pulled back, stared at her. “What secret have you been hiding, Marina?” he asked.

Her eyes rounded, wild, desperate. “Amma is mine. I’m like her…elf and…” She smiled. “…witch. They all think she’s the only one, but she isn’t. I’ve hidden it all my life, been ashamed, but only because I had no power, not enough to do real magic. If I’d let the elf lords know before they would have destroyed me. But, with Amma’s power, they won’t be able to. I can be a witch and an elfin princess. Stop living in fear.” Her fingers tightened on the needle, and she tugged, tried to break Kerr’s hold on her wrist.

He shook his head, surprised at her hypocrisy, but her story didn’t lessen his determination to get the needle. “Raf,” he called, but the hellhound had already shifted to human. He grabbed Marina’s other arm. The smell of magic and singed skin filled the room as Marina tried to fight the hellhound. With no expression on his face, Raf held strong, waiting for Kerr to pluck the needle from Marina’s fingers, then the hellhound pulled her arms behind her back.

“Give it back,” she shrieked, her body bucking.

Kerr ignored her, covering the space to Heather’s body before the Jager leader could spit out a curse.

He knelt next to Heather, pulled her head onto his lap. He stroked hair from her face, then murmuring a prayer, he pushed up her sleeve and slid the needle into her skin. He left it there, waited for a sign, for her eyelids to flutter, her lips to move, but there was nothing to indicate she’d awoken. He pulled the needle from her arm and tried again, this time pricking the skin over her heart.

Nothing.

He turned, stared at Marina. “Why isn’t it working?”

Her eyes round, focused on the needle, she didn’t reply.

Kerr stared down at the needle, too. His hand began to shake. This had to work, maybe he’d pulled it out too soon. He leaned forward, started to press it into her skin again. In his mind he saw Heather, her fear when he’d opened the box that housed the needle, how she’d pulled away…known…

His hands shook more. The needle dragged across Heather’s tunic, leaving a pull in the material. He should have listened to her, destroyed the thing. He stared at the delicate stick of metal, thought about snapping it in two then, but he couldn’t. He knew somehow Heather was tied to the thing.

Heather. What else had she said…that she’d be like Sleeping Beauty unable to awake, trapped in her body. But Sleeping Beauty did awaken, did find her happy ending.

He lowered the needle to the floor, stared at Heather’s closed eyes, her still face and slightly parted lips.

A kiss. Could it be that simple?

T he energy in the room had shifted and quickly. Gone from angry to eager, then back to angry. Now it pulsed with hope, but hope so close to despair, Heather had a hard time pinning which she felt more.

She drifted lower, searched for the source.

One spot, one life seemed to burn like a cresset, to blind her to whatever others were in the room. Kerr.

He was holding her body. She could tell by how close he was to the other tiny forces Amma had said were near her, and because that is what Kerr would do. He’d try to revive her, to bring her back.

A kiss! It had worked for Sleeping Beauty. Please, she murmured to herself.

“Nonsense.” Amma’s voice cut through Heather. “Don’t tell me you believe in fairy tales?” Amma paused, emitted something close to a snort. “You do. You think your ‘prince garm’ can come along and fix everything. Well that’s not how it works in the real world.” She fell silent. Heather could feel her scowl. She ignored her, went back to focusing on Kerr.

“I wish I could see what he is doing. Has he kissed me yet?” she asked.

“It doesn’t matter.”

Heather moved lower, so low she knew she had to be touching the garm. Could he feel her? How she wished she could feel him. “Why hasn’t he moved?” she asked.

“It isn’t going to work. He can’t fix your problems.” Amma was next to her—always next to her. How Heather wanted to be rid of her constant company.

She turned on the witch. “Well, I can’t, can I? So what do you expect me to do—give up all hope, resolve myself to being some kind of cloud like this, stuck for eternity with you?”

“Talk to your fairies.” Amma had turned serious. Her new tone made Heather stop, listen this time. “With him here…well, they may have even more motivation to help you.”

The fairies. Heather shifted her focus, drifted over the small but bright pricks of energy. Amma had laughed at Heather when she’d asked if they were fairies, but what else could be so much smaller than anyone else in the room, but still so alive? Then she froze.

“Where are they?” she asked.

“You sense them,” Amma replied.

“Tell me. Where are they? They aren’t next to my body, are they?”

Amma was silent.

That’s when Heather knew it was true. She…or her body…was pregnant, with twins.

“Identical, to be exact,” Amma added, reading what Heather had tried to keep private.

Identical twins, like Heather’s old mentor. Identical twins were capable of harnessing power no other witches could. And Heather was pregnant with them.

 

Kerr lowered Heather back to his lap, didn’t bother to wipe away the tears that streamed down his cheeks.

It hadn’t worked. He’d kissed her, twice. There’d been no response. Nothing.

“Kerr?” Raf’s voice, concerned, knowing.

Kerr didn’t want to face him, didn’t want to have to say what they would do next. What could he do? Take Heather’s body with them? Hope somehow she’d come back to life? Modern hospitals kept people alive for years—and sometimes they came back. Maybe Heather would, too.

He held her tighter, growled when Raf’s hand touched his shoulder, then brushed his lips against Heather’s

Raf removed his hand, but didn’t step back. “I’ll take the elf…” He gestured to Marina. “…and leave you alone with—”

At his words, Marina leaped forward. Raf lunged to stop her, but the female was too fast. She grabbed the needle and plunged it toward her arm. Kerr, his lips still on Heather’s, shimmered—shimmered them both to the courtyard, left Raf to do what he would with the elf.

In seconds the hellhound joined him, dropped Marina’s limp form to the ground.

Engulfed in anger, Kerr stared at her. He didn’t know if she was alive or dead. He only cared because he wanted to kill the Jager leader himself, do what he’d promised, rip her into tiny bits the elf lords would never be able to put back together. He squeezed Heather again, started to lower her softly to the floor.

Her eyes fluttered. Kerr gripped her tighter; his heart slammed against his chest. He had no air in his lungs, didn’t dare try to breath—afraid he would realize the movement he saw wasn’t real. Then her eyes opened—big brown and one hundred percent Heather.

He kissed her, and she kissed him back.

After his heart had settled, and he’d ran his hands over her, seen that she was truly there, alive, herself, he gathered her in his arms and stood.

Marina lay on the cobblestone, the needle still protruding from her arm. Raf stood over her. He shook his head. “Do you have a need for her? Plans?”

With no hesitation, Kerr replied, “If she’s alive, kill her.” He wouldn’t go through this again.

Heather jerked.

He glanced down at her. “Amma or no Amma, I won’t let you be hunted.” He’d kill anyone who tried to take her from him again.

Heather pressed her fingers against his chest. “She’s gone.” She shook her head and frowned. “I wasn’t sure at first, thought she was just hiding, but she’s not here.” Heather’s voice grew stronger. Her eyes blazed. “Amma’s gone.”

“Gone?” Kerr searched her face, made sure she wasn’t saying the words to convince him to spare Marina. Her face was open, happy. She spoke the truth. When she smiled, he smiled with her, caught her lips in another kiss.

After they had pulled apart, he squeezed her, then frowned. “But where did she go?”

Heather glanced at the needle still sticking from Marina’s arm, her face paled. “Do you think…”

Marina’s shoulders twitched. Raf moved toward her, but the elf moved faster. She leaped to her feet. The arm with the needle hung from her side. A giant ball of energy sizzled in her palm. “I’m here. Damn you and your twins. They wouldn’t let me back in, sent me spiraling around the room. I had no choice…the needle or this.” She motioned to her body, Marina’s body. “An elf princess. They forced me into an elf princess.” She pulled back her arm. Kerr tensed, ready to shimmer. But suddenly Marina’s expression changed, from anger to joy. She smiled. “She’s in me. She’s really in me.”

“Marina,” Kerr murmured to Heather. “She wanted Amma inside her all along. That’s why she’d been hunting her. She’s an elf, but she’s also a witch.”

“That’s right.” Marina tilted her head, stared at Raf. “I’m going to leave now. You can try to stop me, but I wouldn’t recommend it.” Raf rushed her anyway, but she’d already thrown the ball. It hit him in the chest, sent him spinning.

Heather still in his arms, Kerr couldn’t move, couldn’t chase—not fast enough.

Marina grabbed a horse, swung herself up in a blur of silk and power. In an instant, she was gone.

 

Kerr and Heather sat on a flat rock on the other side of the portal—in Alfheim. The portal had opened into a meadow not all that different from the one they had left, but the silvery cast to the trees and the tinkle of the wind as it brushed through their leaves gave the world away. There was nowhere quite like the land of the light elves.

Raf strode up, his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes scanning the horizon. His expression was dark and untrusting; he almost rivaled Arn in that regard, but Kerr couldn’t blame him. He didn’t know what hell Raf had endured while being trapped in that box in Gunngar. He didn’t know what life Raf had been taken from—how he’d even found himself in Gunngar.

“You think the elf lords are watching?” he asked.

Heather slipped her hand into Kerr’s. He wove his fingers through hers and pulled her hand into his lap. She fell against him, her shoulder pressing into his. He didn’t look at her, just squeezed her hand tighter. It was hard to believe he’d ever thought he could live without her.

“Do you want them to come?” Kerr replied.

Raf arched a brow, turned to study the horizon. “Perhaps.”

“I do.” The dragon lumbered forward, his tail slashing side to side. The creature had arrived a few days after they had.

They’d been camping for almost a week, working on the portal and plotting alternative routes to the various worlds. They were a large group with a variety of original homes. It would take time to get everyone where they wanted to go—unless the portal started behaving that was.

The dragon had flown.

Kerr had learned from the creature that, as he’d expected, dragons could go to almost any world—except underground parts of Svartalfaheim and Nedaviller—by flying, and the mists surrounding Gunngar were no threat to him. It was, however, a lot faster to travel by portal, if the dragon could find one large enough.

With the Gunngar portal open, all of Gunngar had opened. No one was trapped inside any longer. Which meant Amma and Marina were free, too. Out there, somewhere.

Raf turned to stare at the dragon. “What would you demand of the elf lords, Joarr?”

Kerr blinked at Raf’s use of a name for the dragon. It hadn’t occurred to him that the creature would have one.

The dragon grinned. Water dripped from icicles hanging off his teeth. “A witch’s heart, and you?”

Raf’s gaze flicked back to the horizon. “The same.”

Heather snuggled closer and Kerr used the excuse to wrap his arm around her, pull her almost into his lap. “I don’t believe they mean you,” he whispered. “I think they both have the hearts of very specific witches in mind.”

Heather nodded. “Still…”

Kerr pressed his lips to her temple, inhaled the rose scent she had never lost, no matter what she endured. “You never told me what happened when you were out of your body—what you saw or learned.”

“About that.” She picked up his hand, laid it on her abdomen. “Maybe you should tell me exactly how you feel about witches.”