The Gauntlet

Karen Chance

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2010 Karen Chance

The Gauntlet

The sound of a key turning in the rusty old lock had everyone scurrying forward with hands outstretched, begging for food, for water, for life. Gillian didn’t go with them. Trussed up as she was, she could barely move. And there was no life that way.

The burly jailer came in carrying a lantern, with two dark shapes behind him. To her surprise, he didn’t immediately kick the women aside with brutal indifference. Instead he let them crowd around, even the ones who had been there a while, whose skeletal hands silently begged with the others.

“This is the lot, my lord,” he said. “And a sorry one it is, too.”

“Why are some of them gagged?” The low, pleasant tenor came from one of the shapes she had assumed to be a guard. The speaker came forward, but she couldn’t see much of him. The hood on his cape was pulled forward and a gloved hand covered his face, probably in an attempt to block the stench.

She smiled grimly and let her head fall back into her arms. It wouldn’t work. Even after two days, she hadn’t become inured to it: the thick, sickly-sweet odor of flesh, unwashed and unhealed.

“Some are strong enough to curse a man to hell otherwise,” the jailer informed him, spitting on the ground.

“Show me the strongest,” the stranger said, and Gillian’s head jerked back up.

The jailor grumbled, but he ordered his men to drag the bound bodies that had been shoved to the back of the room to the forefront. The stranger bent over each one, pushing matted, filthy hair out of their eyes, as if looking for someone. Gillian didn’t watch. She concentrated everything she had on biting through the remaining mass of cloth in her mouth, her eyes on the open door behind the men.

The guards came only once a day, doling out water and a thin gruel, and she didn’t know what kind of shape she would be in by tomorrow. Even worse, she didn’t know how Elinor would be. She glanced over at the child’s huddled form, but she hadn’t moved. Not for hours now, a fact that had Gillian’s heart clenching, part in fear, part in black rage.

If those whoresons let her daughter die in here, she’d rip this place apart stone by stone. Her arms jerked convulsively against the shackles, but they were iron, not rope. If she couldn’t speak, she had no chance of breaking them.

It didn’t help that she hadn’t had water in more than a day. The guard assigned to that detail last night had been one of those she’d attacked on arrival, in an aborted escape attempt. He’d kicked her in the ribs as he passed, and waved the ladle under her nose, but not allowed her so much as a drop. If he’d followed orders, he might have noticed what she was doing, might have replaced the worn woolen gag with something sturdier.

But he hadn’t.

“That one’s dead,” the jailor said, kicking a limp body aside. He quickly checked the others, pulling out one more before lining up the remaining women at the stranger’s feet. Most were silent, watching with hollow, desperate eyes above their gags. A few struggled weakly, either smart enough to realize that this might be a way out, or too far gone to understand what was happening.

“What about this one?” A hand with a square cut ruby ring caught Gillian’s chin, turning her face up to the light.

“You don’t want her!” the jailer said, aiming another kick at her abused ribs.

“The agreement was, in good condition,” the stranger said, blocking the booted foot with his own.

Gillian barely noticed. Up close, it was obvious that she was in even more trouble than she’d thought. The fact that the stranger was dead wasn’t a good sign. That he was still walking around was worse.

Vampire.

They stared at each other, and he smiled slightly at her start of recognition. He had a nice face—young, as if that meant anything—with clear, unmarked skin, a head of dark brown curls and a small goatee. The last would have been amusing under other circumstances, as if he was trying to make his pleasant face appear more sinister.

She wondered why he didn’t just bare his fangs.

“I don’t see as it makes a difference, if you’re aiming to feed off her,” the guard said, angry, but smart enough not to show it.

Those liquid dark eyes swept over her. “What I do with the woman is my affair.”

“Ahh. Some sport beforehand, then. I’d not risk it, meself. One of my men tried the night she was brought in, and the bitch cursed him. He’s in a bad way, still.”

“How tragic,” the vampire sounded amused.

The guard must have thought so, too, because his already florid features flushed even darker. “See if you’re laughing with a pillicock the size of a pin!” he spat.

The vampire ignored him and put a hand beneath Gillian’s arm, helping her to stand. “I’d let you out of those, but I’m afraid you’d hex me,” he said cheerfully, nodding at her cuffs. “And I like my privities the way they are.” He glanced at the guard. “Tell me about her.”

“One of them that’s been operating out of the thicket,” the man said resentfully, referring to Maidenhead thicket on the road between London and Bristol, where Gillian’s group had had some success relieving travellers of their excess wealth.

“Ah, yes. I met a robber there myself, not long ago.” The vampire smiled at her. “He was delicious.”

Gillian just stared. Did he always talk to his food this much before eating it?

“But I must say,” he commented, his eyes on her worn gown, greasy red hair and dirty face. “For a member of one of the most notorious gangs of thieves in England, you do not look very prosperous.”

Maybe I would, she thought furiously, if I didn’t have to spend most of my time avoiding people like you.

Once, she’d had protection from his kind. She’d been a member of one of the Druid covens that had ruled the supernatural part of the British Isles for time out of mind. But that had been before the arrival of the so-called “Silver Circle,” an ancient society of light magic users who had brought nothing but darkness to England.

They had arrived in force ten years ago, as refugees of a vicious war on the continent. The religious tensions that culminated with Spain launching the Armada had offered an opportunity to one of the Circle’s oldest enemies. A group of dark mages known as the Black Circle had joined forces with the Inquisition under the pretense of helping to stamp out heresy. And by all accounts, they had been brutally efficient at hunting down their light counterparts.

But their suffering hadn’t made the Silver Circle noticeably gentler on anyone else. They had but one goal in mind—to rebuild their forces and retake control of magical Europe. And they intended to start with England.

Gillian’s coven was one of those who had refused their kind offers of “protection,” and preferred to continue determining their own destiny. In return, they had been subjected to a witch hunt mightier and more successful than anything the Inquisition had ever managed. By the time they realized just how far their fellow mages would go to support the idea of a unified magical community, the covens had been decimated through deceit, betrayal and murder.

But they haven’t killed all of us, Gillian thought viciously. Not yet. It was a fact that would someday cost them dear.

The vampire had been watching her with interest. She didn’t know how he could tell anything past the folds of the gag, but apparently he saw something that amused him. His smile became almost genuine.

“See my man about payment,” he told the guard, his eyes never leaving her face. “I’ll take this one with me.”

“Take her?” The guard’s scowl became more pronounced. “Take her where?”

“That is my affair,” the vampire repeated.

“Not if ye’re planning to make off wi’ her, it damn well isn’t! No one will much care if she doesn’t last long enough for the rope, but it’s as much as my life is worth to let her go beyond these walls. She’s dangerous!”

“I do truly hope so,” the vampire said oddly.

A beefy hand fell on his shoulder. “If ye want to make a meal off her, that’s one thing. But all the gold in yer purse won’t save me once they discover—”

In an eye blink, the guard was slammed against the wall, held several feet off the floor by the slim hand around his throat. “Perhaps you should be more concerned about your immediate future,” the vampire said softly.

Gillian didn’t wait to see who would win the argument over which one would be allowed to kill her. The soggy threads finally came apart in her mouth and she spat them out. But with no saliva left, and a throat still throbbing from the elbow blow it had taken days ago, she couldn’t speak. She swallowed convulsively and concentrated everything on making some kind of sound—anything.

An incantation rolled off her tongue. It was a dry whisper, but it was enough. With a rusty creak, the shackles parted around her wrists and ankles, and she was free.

Her limbs were stiff and uncoordinated, and her head was spinning from the power loss. But then she caught sight of Eleanor and nothing else mattered. She lurched forward in a scrambling crawl, making it a few yards before rough hosed legs blocked the way.

“Where d’ye think you’re going?” the other guard demanded, grabbing her by the back of the collar. She slung a spell at him, but the angle was off and it missed, exploding against the low ceiling of the room.

Had the roof been in proper repair, the spell would have either dissipated or ricocheted back, depending on how much power she had been able to muster. But whoever owned this heap of stones before the Circle had skimped on repairs, and the once stout wood had seen one too many winters. What felt like half the roof suddenly rained down on their heads, sending her stumbling back and burying the guard under a pile of weathered beams.

Gillian clutched the wall, blinking in the wash of brilliant sunlight that streamed through the ruined roof. It was blinding after two days of almost complete darkness, and the struggle with the guard had disoriented her. She was no longer sure where Elinor was, and when she tried to move forward, she was battered by screaming, panicked women, on all sides.

“Elinor!” she yelled as loudly as her parched throat would allow, but there was no answer.

Her eyes finally adjusted and she caught a glimpse of her daughter’s slight form huddled against one wall. She was rocking slightly, staring at nothing, her hands bound to an iron ring. Gillian crawled over and started to work the leather bindings on her wrists off. They were so tight that the circulation to her hands had been partially cut off and her small fingers were swollen like sausages.

Elinor didn’t fight her, although she couldn’t have seen much through the glare or heard her mother’s whispered assurances over the din. She was trembling from a combination of exhaustion, shock and fear. Dark blue rings stained her eyes and her beautiful blond hair hung limp and lifeless, like her expression.

The last stubborn strap came loose and Gillian pulled her daughter into her arms. She started to rise when one of the bound figures on the floor rolled into her, struggling in vain to throw off her bonds. The old woman was in irons and gagged, as Gillian had been, with no chance to escape if she couldn’t speak.

Gillian pulled a disgusting scrap of cloth out of her mouth, to give her a fighting chance, while scanning the room for any way out besides the door. “Release me,” the woman gasped, on a rattling breath.

“Release yourself, old mother,” Gillian told her distractedly. “I need what strength I have left.”

She could already hear soldiers on the run, thudding their way up the tower’s wooden steps. There was only one way down—and it was the same path the guards were taking up. She might make it alone; she had that much pent up rage. But not with Elinor.

“Mind your manners, girl!” she was told, right before wrinkled, age-spotted fingers reached out and gave her a pinch. Gillian grasped the woman’s hand, intending to pry it off her flesh. But then she looked down--and stopped cold.

Crisscrossed by delicate veins and almost buried under a layer of grime were faint blue lines, etched onto the woman’s inner wrist. Gillian stared at the curling, elegant pattern, one older than the walls that imprisoned them, older than almost anything else in these isles, and felt her skin go cold. The three pointed triskelion was worn only by the leaders of the great covens.

A cannon ball had landed a dozen yards from her once, and it had felt like this, like being knocked flat even though she hadn’t moved. She had never really believed that it might work, this plan of extermination. The covens could be hurt, but they would come back, as they’d always come back, through every war, invasion, and black time that littered their past. But if the Circle could reach even to the heart of them, could reduce one of the Great Mothers to this…

They could destroy us, she thought blankly. They could destroy all of us.

Chapter Two

Another pinch interrupted Gillian’s thoughts, this time feeling like it took a hunk of her arm along with it. “Stop daydreaming,” she was told tetchily. “And do as you’re told!”

It wasn’t a request, and obedience to the elders was ingrained from birth. The requisite spell all but leaped to her lips. But the iron was corroded, or perhaps her power was fading, because it took a second application before the old hinges finally gave way. And by then, reinforcements had arrived.

Gillian could hear them in the corridor, being hit with spells from the few witches still capable of throwing any. Someone screamed and a body crashed into the heavy wooden door, slamming it shut and momentarily interrupting the attack. But it would be a moment’s reprieve at best. And when the guards broke through, she didn’t think recapture would be their main concern.

The Great Mother latched onto her arm with a strength she hadn’t thought the woman had. “There.” She pointed to a corner of the room that had emptied of prisoners. A splash of sunshine, mid-afternoon and richly golden, highlighted a patch of bare worn boards. They were old and slimy, scattered with rat bones and smeared with human waste. But unlike the roof, they were solid.

“I can’t,” Gillian confessed. She knew without trying that she didn’t have the strength to destroy the floorboards. They were good English oak, as hard as the stones that made up the tower’s walls, and just as immovable. “We have to find another—”

“Stop arguing,” the eldest snapped, cutting her off. “And take me.”

Gillian took her. She didn’t know what else to do. They were trapped.

Even worse, the vampire was standing off to the side, casually observing the chaos. She scowled; she should have known that sunlight wouldn’t kill him. If he was that weak, he’d have come at night. He’d retreated further into the hood of his cape, leaving him a long column of black wool, but otherwise appeared unconcerned.

He didn’t move, but Gillian carefully kept the sunlight between them nonetheless. She pulled Elinor and the eldest along the wall, hoping the glistening beams would provide some kind of protection. His head turned, keeping them in view, but he said nothing.

“In the middle. There!” the Great Mother gasped, and again Gillian followed orders, only to have her arm gripped in a steel-like vise. Cloudy blue eyes met hers, almost sightless, but somehow penetrating all the same. “In times like these, we do what is needful--what we must to survive, for us and our folk. Do you understand, girl?”

No, Gillian thought frantically. What she understood was that the door was about to open and they were all going to die. That was pretty damn clear. “I do not think they mean for any of us to survive,” she said, her throat raw.

The Great Mother’s grip became positively painful, arthritic fingers digging into the flesh of Gillian’s arm. “It matters not what they mean! Will you fight, girl, for what is yours?”

“Yes,” she said, confused. What did she think? That Gillian planned to simply lie down and die? “But it is not likely to be a long one. I have little power left, and the Circle--”

“You will find that you have all the power you need.”

Gillian didn’t understand what she meant, and there was no time to ask. The door burst open, but she barely noticed, because the frail body on the dirty boards had begun to glow. Power radiated outward, shimmering beneath translucent skin like sunlight through moth wings. It flooded the ugly room, gilding the old bricks and causing even the guards to shield their eyes.

Elinor made a soft sound and hid her face, but Gillian couldn’t seem to look away. For one brief moment, the Old Mother looked like an exquisitely delicate statue, a fire-lit radiance flowing under the pale crepe of her skin. And then Gillian’s own skin began to heat, the flesh of her arm reddening and then burning where the thin fingers gripped her.

She cried out and tried to jerk away, but the Old Mother stubbornly held on. Her skin was shining through Gillian’s hand now, so bright that the edges of her flesh were limned with it. But she couldn’t feel her anymore. She couldn’t feel anything but the great and terrible power gathering in the air, power that whispered to her, wordless and uncontrollable.

It exploded the next moment in flash of brilliant fire. Gillian threw her body over Elinor’s, trying to shield her from the searing heat and deadly flames she expected. But they didn’t come. And when she dared to look again, the old woman’s body was gone—and so was half the floor.

The thick oak boards had dissolved, crumbling into nothingness like charred firewood, leaving a burnt, smoking hole looking down into the room below. Gillian crouched beside it for a moment, her heart pounding, knife-edged colors tearing at her vision. Until a glance showed that the guards had fled in fear of magic they didn’t understand.

She didn’t, either, but she recognized an opportunity when she saw one.

Elinor was clinging to her neck, hard enough to strangle. It was far from comfortable, but at least it meant she didn’t have to try to hold her as she lowered them onto one of the remaining rafters of the room below. It was the gatehouse, where a contingent of mages usually stayed to watch the front of the castle and to guard any prisoners in the room above. No one was there now, everyone having run up the stairs to secure the door or having scattered after the escapees.

For a brief moment, they were alone.

Gillian’s arm throbbed under the burnt edges of her sleeve, but she ignored it and started making her way along the beam to clear the pile of smoking shards below. Yellow sunlight struggled through the haze, enough to let her see stone walls spotted in a few places by narrow, arrow slit windows, a few stools and a flat-topped storage trunk that was being used as a table. The remains of someone’s lunch was still spread out over the top.

There were no obvious ways out. The only door let out onto the ramparts, which were heavily guarded. And even if they had been able to fit through the tiny windows, the main gate was protected by two towers filled with archers. Anyone trying to leave that way would have to traverse a quarter mile of open fields, the local forest having been cut back to give the archers a clear shot.

Gillian thought that she could just about manage a weak shield, but not to cover two, and not to last the whole way. And Elinor couldn’t help or even protect herself; she was barely seven and her magic had yet to manifest. The eldest should have saved her sacrifice, she thought grimly. They weren’t going to get out of this.

“Could I be of assistance, at all?”

Her head whipped up to see the vampire’s curly mop poking through the charred edges of the hole. She threw up a shield, silently cursing him for forcing her to use the power, and jumped to the floor. Shards of wood and a few old iron nails dug into her bare feet, but the pain was almost welcome. It helped to push away the gut-wrenching panic and let her think.

A guard was sprawled on the floor nearby, half hidden by the fall of wood and debris. He wasn’t moving, and one hand was a bloody mess—he must have used it to try to shield himself. The other gripped a long piece of wood that was partially concealed by his body. She crouched beside him and started tugging on it, while keeping a wary eye on the creature above.

“My earlier jest may have been…ill-timed,” the vampire offered. “I do not, in fact, intend to dine upon you. Or your lovely…daughter, is it?”

Gillian’s head jerked up. “Touch her and they will never find all the pieces,” she snarled, pulling Elinor behind her.

But the creature made no move toward them, other than to spread his hands, showing that he held no weapons. As if he needed any. “I assure you, I pose no threat.”

“A harmless vampire.” She didn’t bother to keep the mockery out of her voice.

“To you.” A smile came easily to that handsome face. “In fact, I work with a party in government charged with maintaining the security of these lands.”

“You lie. Vampires work for their makers.”

“Yes, but in this case, my mistresses’ interests align.”

“And what would those interests be?” Gillian asked, not because she cared, but to buy her time to find out if the item in the guard’s hand was what she thought it was.

“The queen’s enemies are not composed of humans alone,” he told her, as easily as if he carried on conversations upside down every day. Which maybe he did, she thought darkly, images of bats and other unsavory creatures coming to mind. “Ever since England became a refuge for the Silver Circle, she has been a target for the dark. And the assassination attempts grow with each passing day.”

“And why should a vampire care about such things?”

“We must live in this world, too, Mistress--”

“Urswick,” she panted. Curse it—the guard weighed a ton!

“I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mistress Urswick,” he said wryly. “I am Chris Marlowe, although my friends call me Kit.”

“You have friends?”

“Strangely enough, yes. I would like to number you among them, if I could.”

Gillian was sure he would. But while she might be a penniless thief, her coven ruined, her friends scattered or dead, neither she nor her daughter would be feeding him this day. “Don’t count on it,” she snarled, and jerked the slender column of wood free.

It was a staff as she’d hoped, but not of the Circle’s make. The surface was satiny to the touch, worn smooth as stone from centuries of handling. The oil from all those hands had cured it to a dark mahogany, blending the black glyphs carved along its length into the surface. She traced one of the ridges with a fingertip and didn’t believe it, even when a frisson of power passed through her shields to jump along her nerves.

Her fingers began to prickle, black fury rising in front of her eyes, as she stood there with a Druid staff in her hands. It wasn’t enough that they were persecuted, imprisoned, and murdered. The Circle had to steal what little of their heritage they had been able to preserve, as well.

“At the risk of sounding discourteous, may I point out that you are in no position to be choosy?” the vampire said, right before the door to the room slammed open and half a dozen guards rushed in. And then blew back out as the staff turned the door and half the wall into rubble.

“Perhaps I spoke too soon,” he murmured, as she pulled a white-faced Elinor through the red bite of heat and the smell of smoke to the now missing door.

Outside, the castle’s walls hemmed them in on all sides, gray stone against a pewter sky. A battle was going on to the left, with the prisoners trying to get down the stairs. They looked to be holding their own, with one witch’s spell sending a guard flying off the battlements into the open courtyard. But that was about to change.

Reinforcements were already running toward the battle from either side. And they were the Circle’s elite corps--war mages, they called them--instead of the talentless scum employed as jailers. The witches from most of the covens were well trained in self-defense, but their weapons had been confiscated when they were taken. Without them, they wouldn’t last long.

Of course, that could prove true of them as well. A group of the Circle’s dark robed mages broke off from the main group and started their way. And in front of them was a lethal cloud of weapons, iron dark against the pale sky.

Gillian didn’t try to run; there was no time and nowhere to go. Against the Circle’s harsh alchemy of steel and iron, she called Wind, and it answered far more quickly than usual. She was only dimly aware of a blizzard of debris behind her back and the mages’ squawks of alarm as their weapons went tumbling back at them.

For a long moment, the roar of her element filled her senses in a heady rush, billowing out her tattered gown, matting her hair and blowing into her eyes. She didn’t bother to brush it away. It felt good. It felt like power.

But it didn’t last. Within seconds, the wind was already dying. The staff was magnifying her strength, but she had so little left. And when it gave out--

“My offer of assistance remains open,” the vampire said casually. He’d jumped down from the second floor and was leaning against the shattered wall, watching the chaos with the mildly interested glance of someone at a bear baiting with no money on the outcome.

“It’s well known that your kind helps no one but themselves!”

“Which is better than attacking and imprisoning our own, would you not say?” She didn’t see him move, but he was suddenly beside her, the wind whipping his curls wildly around his face.

“Why should you want to help me?” she demanded harshly.

“Because I need yours in return.”

Despite everything, Gillian almost laughed. He stood there in his fine clothes, smelling of spices and sporting a jewel worth the price of a house. And she was supposed to believe that he needed anything from the likes of her?

“’Pon my honor,” he said, seeing her expression.

“You may as well swear on your life! Everyone knows that vampires are selfish, base, cruel creatures who only want one thing!”

“And everyone knows that coven witches are weak, treacherous and easily corrupted,” he shot back. “Everyone is often wrong.”

Gillian started to answer, but a harsh clanging echoed across the keep, cutting her off. A small group of witches had cleared the stairs and made a break for the gates. But the heavy iron portcullis guarding the entrance had slammed down before they could reach it, trapping them in the middle of a sea of enemy mages. Her hands clenched at their desperate cries for help, but there was nothing she could do but die with them.

And she had Elinor to think about.

She spun on her heel, brushing past the vampire and racing back inside the small gatehouse. The trunk was still there, with its bit of stale loaf. She brushed it aside and threw up the heavy lid, hoping for weapons--charms, potions, protection wards--anything designed to hold a reservoir of magic for use in times like these. But there was nothing, aside from a few scattered rat droppings.

She slammed the trunk shut in frustration, wishing she had the strength to throw it at the wall. The guard must have taken the staff as a trophy. Because wherever the Circle was storing their weapons, it wasn’t here.

“The other gate is still open,” the vampire said, from the doorway. “And I am skilled at glamourie. Let me inside your shields and I can hide you and the girl. We can walk out of here while the fight distracts the guards.”

“Why should I trust you?” she demanded harshly, desperate for a reason, any reason.

“What choice have you?”

Gillian didn’t see that they had much either way. Getting outside the walls would do them little good if it left her drained and defenseless, and at the mercy of a creature whose kind were well known to have none. But with no weapons and her magic all but exhausted, staying here would mean certain death at the hands of the Circle.

The vampire’s head suddenly came up, reacting to something beyond the reach of her senses. “Help me and I’ll help you,” he said urgently, holding out his hand.

Gillian hugged Elinor against her, every instinct she had screaming that she was mad to put their lives in the hands of a creature who saw them merely as prey. But if her only choice was between dying now and dying later, she would take later. “If you betray me, I will use my last breath to curse you!”

“I would expect nothing less.”

Gillian licked dry lips. She didn’t believe him, didn’t think for a moment that he really wanted to help. But the wind had died and booted feet were pounding up the stairs, and she was out of options. She readied a curse, hoping it wouldn’t be her last. And dropped the tattered remnants of her shield.

Chapter Three

This was typical, Kit thought sourly, slamming them back against the wall as a mob of mages rushed in. Find the perfect candidate and, naturally, everything went to hell before he could get away with her. Unfortunately, his lady was not one to understand unforeseen difficulties. He really did not want to think of the reception he was likely to get if he returned empty-handed.

Of course, at the moment, he would rather settle for returning at all.

“Search every inch,” the dark-haired leader snapped, and Kit silently cursed.

He’d been hoping for a group of slow-witted guards who might have assumed that the witch had somehow slipped past them in the confusion. But judging from their windblown hair and murderous expressions, these were the men she’d attacked outside. And he couldn’t take a half dozen war mages on his own.

At least, he didn’t think he could, having never before tried. And he discovered that he wasn’t all that keen on finding out. He decided some subtlety was in order and started shuffling his little party toward the ruined door.

He thought their chances of making it out undetected were reasonably good. He’d used one of the talents he’d manifested since becoming a master and gone dim as soon as he heard the men approaching. Dim wasn’t invisible--he could still be seen if someone was looking right at him. But even then he’d be only a faint, indistinct outline, like a haze of black smoke. And with all the real smoke choking the air, who was going to notice?

A war mage, apparently. He’d almost reached the door, where only a single mage stood guard, when one of the nearby searchers suddenly changed direction and grabbed a fold of his cloak. “Sir! They’re—”

So much for subtlety. Kit seized the man’s arm and slung him into the mage guarding the door, hard enough to send them both staggering backwards off the ramparts. Then he snatched the child into his arms, grabbed the witch by the waist and bolted.

It wasn’t the most elegant escape he’d ever made, but a lifetime of close scrapes had taught him not to be picky. He dodged a spell that came blistering through the air after him, sidestepped a small battle, and headed for the stairs. And then pulled up abruptly and spun them back against the wall.

“What is it?” the witch demanded. “Why are we—” She stopped, catching sight of the same thing he had.

The stairs were choked with guards and the courtyard of the castle had turned into a particularly colorful hell. The flimsy wooden shacks that housed the kitchen, stables and blacksmith had caught alight and were burning merrily, with spell-fire tinting the billowing smoke in glowing colors. Horses were neighing, people were screaming, and spells were exploding on all sides.

In other words, it was the usual battlefield chaos, which was what gave him pause. On any given battlefield on any given day, there were about a hundred ways to die--and that multiplied tenfold if it was a magical battle. He going to have to—

A spell he hadn’t seen coming hit them broadside before he could finish the thought, sizzling against the shield the witch had managed to raise before flaming out in a burst of acid green sparks. And while no one might have been able to see them, that spectacle had been all too visible. Even worse, the effects didn’t dissipate; instead, a glowing nimbus pulsed in the air around them, like the corona of the sun on a foggy day.

“Marker,” the witch gasped, before he could ask. “They used it to hunt us in the forests, to make it impossible for us to hide. You can’t conceal us now and I cannot protect all three of us!”

She started struggling, probably deciding to use her remaining strength to save herself and the girl. But it wouldn’t be enough and Kit knew it. They had to stay together, and they had to get out that gate, but the stairs were impossible. He could probably survive the assault of the guards; but not the witches.

That left only one option.

“Hold on,” he said grimly, renewing his grip on them.

The witch was quick; he’d give her that. “Are you mad?” she stared from him to the chaos below and back again. “We can’t go down there!”

“And we cannot stay here! We’re sitting ducks. The smoke should hide us.”

“Hide our bodies, mayhap,” she snarled, struggling to get away.

Kit held on and dragged her to the edge of the rampart, trying to spot the least lethal landing place. But mages were converging on them from all sides, and there was no more time. He jumped, right before a bolt of pure power tore through the air he’d just vacated.

It hit the side of the stairs behind them, blowing a hole in the stone and sending sharp shards raining down onto the crowd below. The screaming and cursing and spell throwing from the surrounding witches increased four-fold, but Kit barely noticed because something hit him full in the face.

It wasn’t a spell, unless the mages had invented one that smelled like burnt feathers and tried to peck your eyes out. He cursed, but couldn’t do much more with his arms full of witches. But whatever-it-was went into a frenzy anyway, squawking and flapping its wings wildly, as if he was attempting to murder it.

And then the ground tilted under his feet and he landed on his arse.

It took him a few seconds to realize that he hadn’t hit the ground at all, but the edge of a cart full of woven cages of chickens. Half of them had been broken open in the battle and the contents were floundering around in the mud or getting roasted mid-flight by the spells crisscrossing the air. Except for the one which had somehow gotten its claws trapped in the wool of his doublet.

The witch had righted herself and her daughter and was hunkered down beside the cart, watching in disbelief as he did battle with the guards’ dinner. Kit had the distinct impression that his credibility might have just taken a knock, especially since he seemed to be losing. And then wounded dignity was the least of his problems when a dark-haired mage jumped off the stairs and landed on the cart’s other end.

Kit went flying into him, bird and all, and the three of them tumbled off the back of the cart. The mage was cursing and trying to raise a shield, while Kit attempted to drain him before he could manage it. They were both half successful. The mage snapped his shields shut, but they didn’t completely stop the flow of blood Kit was leeching out of him through the air.

In a panic, the man sent out a cluster of magical weapons. Half of them collided with crazed birds while the rest attempted to bury themselves into Kit’s flesh. He swatted at them, but like a storm of angry bees, they kept buzzing around, rushing in to stab at him whenever they got the chance.

“You’re losing as much blood as you steal, vampire!” the mage crowed, attempting to gut him with a sword.

“But I can replace mine,” Kit said sweetly, sending the sword spinning across the fight with a well-aimed kick. “How about you?”

“Well said,” the man replied, and kicked him in the square in the groin.

Kit stumbled back, fervently wishing that padded cod pieces hadn’t gone out of style, and landed in the cages of squawking fowl. His impact burst most of the ones left intact and sent up a whirlwind of flapping wings and clawing feet. He fought his way free, finally tearing his own damned passenger loose and tossing it aside. But by the time he got back to his feet, the mage was gone.

And so was the witch.

“God’s Bones!” he hissed, staring around wildly. But she and the girl were nowhere in sight. That could mean that a mage had her, but he doubted it. The spells the Circle’s men had been casting weren’t the kind they used when they wanted to take prisoners, and he didn’t see her body.

No, it was a safe bet that she’d run off somewhere while he was distracted. The question was, where?

He glanced at the secondary gate, or what he could see of it through drifting clouds of smoke. It was temptingly close, and the mages hadn’t yet managed to lower the portcullis. It looked like they’d tried, but the witches had hit it with something that caused the metal to run like honey. And enough had dripped into the crevices of the track to cause the gate to stick partway down.

There looked to be room to squeeze out underneath, but that required getting to it first. And that didn’t look likely. The Circle had placed a double line of guards across the opening to act as a human buffer, leaving their own men free to slowly decimate the witches who were gathering in force nearby. In between the two groups was a hell pit of smoke, spells and running, screaming people.

If she’d headed that way, she wouldn’t last long.

It had seemed such an easy task, Kit thought grimly, as he ducked and dodged his way through the melee. Interrogate Lady Isabel Tapley, a coven witch lately apprehended by the mages who was suspected of being in league with the Black Circle. There were rumors that another plot was brewing against the queen, whom the dark blamed for sheltering their enemies, and Kit had been sent to find out if there was any truth to them.

But nothing had gone right from the beginning. Lady Isabel had poisoned herself before he arrived, leaving him to question a corpse, and not the animated kind. The fact that she’d resorted to such extreme measures made him that much more convinced that the plot was genuine, but she’d left no papers behind and her servants knew frustratingly little about their mistress’ plans. The only thing he had been able to glean was that she had a meeting in three days’ time with several men newly arrived from Spain.

And that one of them shared the name of a noted Black Circle member.

Kit needed to be at that meeting. And for that, he needed a credible Lady Isabel. But young, red-headed, coven witches were a little thin on the ground these days, thanks to the Circle. And his request to be allowed to borrow one had been flatly refused. He had therefore gone to the source and bribed the guards, only to land in this mess.

The more sensible side of his brain offered the observation that, really, there had to be other witches who fit Lady Isabel’s description. And some of them might be found in somewhat less trying circumstances. The other part of his brain, however, the one that was always getting him in trouble, was dead set on this woman. He’d bled for her; he would have her. And the Circle would not.

Assuming he could find her before they did.

Chapter Four

So much for my knight errant, Gillian thought, watching her rescuer getting beaten up by a half-roasted bird. She was about to go rescue the creature when one of the war mages dove off the side of the ramparts, flinging a curse in front of him. She acted on instinct, dropping her all-but-useless shields and throwing up a declive instead. It took most of her remaining strength, but it worked; the protection spell acted like a mirror, reflecting the caster’s magic right back at him.

It caught him in the middle of his leap, popping his shields and sending him crashing headfirst into the cart. The vampire had landed on the other end, and the two hundred pound mage smashing down at the edge of the cart caused him to go flying, chicken and all. And then she didn’t see any more, because strong arms clapped around both of hers from behind, lifting her completely off the ground.

She tried to mutter a curse, but found she couldn’t draw a breath. The guard—and it had to be a guard, because she was still alive--was doing his best to squeeze her in two. She couldn’t aim the staff with him behind her, so she brought it down on his foot instead, as hard as she could. The man bellowed and dropped her, and Gillian scrambled away, only to be dragged back by the ankle.

She rolled over to try to free herself, and then had to roll again as a knife flashed down, ripping through her gown and missing her by inches. As he wrenched it out of the ground, she caught a glimpse of Elinor behind him, her face pale and her eyes huge. And then the guard dropped his knife and started screaming.

Gillian scrambled to her feet, ready to grab her daughter and bolt, assuming he’d been hit by a stray spell. And then she realized—it was a spell, but it hadn’t gone astray. A coiling ribbon of reddish gold flame had snaked out of a burning hut and hit the man square in the back.

At first she thought Elinor must have done it, despite the fact that it was years too early for that. But a searing pain in her arm caused her to look down, and she saw the fire glyph on the staff glowing bright red. She stared at it in disbelief, because she couldn’t call Fire.

All coven witches had to specialize in one of the three great elements—Wind, Fire or Earth—when they came of age, and hers was Wind. She’d never been able to summon more than one; no one could except the coven Mothers, who could harness the collective power of all the witches under their control. But she could feel the drain as her magic pulled the element through the air, as she called it to her.

She just didn’t know how she was doing it.

And she didn’t have time to figure it out. The guard had made the same assumption she had and spun, snarling, on Elinor. Gillian had a second to see him start for her daughter, to see his fist lash out—

And then she was looking at the hilt of a knife protruding from the burnt material of his shirt.

The smell of the charnel houses curled out into the air, mixing with the tang of gunpowder and the raw-lightning scent of spent magic. The guard fell to his knees, the blood gushing hot and sticky from a wound in his side, wetting her hand on the hilt of his blade. She let go and he collapsed, a surprised look on his face and blood on his lips. And then Elinor was tugging her away, shock and pride warring on her small face.

Gillian didn’t feel pride; she felt sick. She wiped her sticky hand on her skirts, feeling it tremble, like her the breath in her lungs, like her roiling gut. But the guard’s death wasn’t the cause. She pulled her daughter into her arms and hugged the precious body against her, her heart beating frantically in her chest. She’d almost lost her; she’d almost lost Elinor.

She crouched down beside a nearby well, the only cover she could find that wasn’t burning, and stared around desperately for some opening in the crowd. Panic was making it hard to think, but she shoved it away angrily. She couldn’t afford weakness now. Weakness would get them killed.

A group of nearby witches was attacking the stables, but Gillian couldn’t see the point. The horses’ faster pace might get them beyond range of the archers before their shields gave out, but that was assuming they made it out at all. And while the portcullis wasn’t completely down, a mob of guards and who-knew-how-many protection spells stood in their way.

No. No one was getting through that.

But they might cause a great deal of commotion trying.

She blinked, her heart drumming with sudden hope. She stared from the battlefield to the high, gray walls surrounding it. And then she scooped up Elinor and took off, weaving through the remaining sheds and outbuildings that hugged the castle walls.

She stopped when they reached the far side of the castle, squatting beside a wagon piled with empty barrels and breathing hard. She didn’t think they’d been seen, but she couldn’t be sure. There were guards here, too, although not as many. Most had joined the fight and the rest were staring at it, as if watching her people be slaughtered was great entertainment.

She probably had a few minutes, at least.

She tugged Elinor behind the wagon and started working on the ropes holding the barrels, tearing her nails on the tight knots. “What are you doing?” Elinor was looking at her strangely.

“Getting us out of this place!”

“There’s no door here,” Elinor said, staring past her at the carnage.

“Don’t look at it,” Gillian told her harshly. “And no door doesn’t mean no exit.”

But not getting one of these barrels loose might. The knots must have been tied before the previous night’s rain and they’d shrunk. Try as she might, she couldn’t get them loose, and while it would be easy with magic, she didn’t have it to spare. She was ready to scream from frustration when she spied a little barrel on one edge of the cart that no one had bothered to strap down.

She rolled it onto the ground and stood it on its end, glancing about. She didn’t know if she could do this once, but she certainly couldn’t manage it twice. The moment had to be perfect.

It came an instant later, when the guards on the ramparts above them reached the farthest end of their patrol. It left a brief window with no one on the walls directly overhead. Gillian stepped back, pointed the staff at the barrel and cast the strongest levitation spell she could manage.

For a long moment, nothing happened, the small container merely sat there like a stone. But then, as she watched with her heart in her throat, it quivered, wobbled slightly and sluggishly lifted off the ground. She breathed a brief sigh of relief and jerked the staff towards her. The barrel followed the movement, but slowly, as though it weighed much more than empty wood should. But she didn’t start to worry until it began to shake as if caught in a high gale.

And then to start cursing.

A stumpy little leg suddenly poked out the bottom, with a big toe sticking out of a pair of dirty, torn hose. Then a plump arm pushed through the side and a head topped by wild red curls appeared where, a moment before, the round wooden lid had been. The head was facing away from her, but the barrel was slowly rotating, so it wasn’t but a second before a small, furious face came into view.

It had so many freckles that it was almost impossible to see skin, but the militant glint in the hard green eyes was clear enough. “Goddess’ teeth! I’ll curse you into oblivion, I’ll gouge out yer eyes, I’ll cut off that bald-headed hermit twixt yer laigs and feed him to—” She paused, getting a good look at the woman standing in front of her. “Gillian?” Her gaze narrowed and her head tilted. “Wot’s this, then?”

“Winnie,” Gillian said hoarsely, her brief moment of hope collapsing as the barrel resolved itself into a stout, four-foot-tall woman in a green Irish kirtle. “I didn’t recognize—”

“I should demmed well hope not,” Winnie said, flexing her small limbs. She gently floated to the ground while rooting around in her voluminous skirts. “’Ere. You sound like you need this mor’n I do.”

Gillian took the small bottle her friend proffered and downed a sizeable swallow before realizing it wasn’t water. Now she couldn’t talk and she couldn’t breathe. “What?” she gasped.

“Me special brew.”

“Didn’t they take it from you, when you came in?” Elinor asked suddenly. Seeing a familiar face seemed to have done her good, and she had always liked Winnie.

“Naw. Made it look like a growth on my thigh, I did. Hairy.” She nodded archly. “Lots o’ moles. The guards din’ want ter get too close.”

Elinor looked suitably impressed.

Gillian gave Winnie back her “brew”--her wits were addled enough as it was—and she tucked the possibly lethal concoction away. “Right, then. Wot’s the plan?”

“The plan was to levitate one of these and ride it out of here!” Gillian croaked. “There’s about to be an assault on the front gate. If it draws enough attention, we might be able to slip away while the guards are—”

“Don’t matter,” Winnie broke in, shaking her head. “The Circle’s got charms on the walls, don’t they? Try ter go over and poof,” she gestured expressively. “The spell breaks and ye fall to yer death. Saw a witch try it a minute ago.”

So much for that idea, Gillian thought, swallowing. But Winnie’s wouldn’t work, either. “They’ll check for those in hiding,” she said, trying to keep the panic out of her voice. “As soon as they’ve rounded up those who chose to fight!”

“Aye,” Winnie said, imperturbably. “And mebbe they’ll find me and mebbe they won’t. But fightin’ war mages is nothin’ but a quick death—if yer lucky.”

“If we had our weapons, they wouldn’t kill us so easily!” Gillian said passionately.

“But we don’t. They’re up there,” Winnie pointed at a nearby tower. “And ain’t no reaching ‘em.”

“What?” It took a moment for her friend’s words to sink in. And then Gillian turned her face upwards, staring at the massive cylinder of stone that loomed above them, blocking the sun. “They’re right there?”

“Don’t go getting any ideas,” Winnie told her, watching her face. “I know how ye are about a challenge, but this one’s a beggar’s chance. There’s a mass o’ guards on the door and probably more inside. I heard a couple talkin’ about bein’ kept on duty to help secure the place.”

“That’s never stopped us before,” Gillian murmured, feeling a little dizzy at the sudden return of hope.

“This ain’t a job, Gil,” Winnie said, starting to look nervous.

Gillian rounded on her, eyes flashing and color high. “No, it’s not a job, Winnie. It’s the job. Our last, if we don’t do this!”

“But we can’t—”

“It’s just another robbery! Only we need this one more than any gold we ever took.”

Winnie put a small hand on her arm. “Gil, stop for a minute. Stop. Yer’re not gettin’ through that door.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Gillian told her, staring upwards. “I’m not planning on it.”

Chapter Five

Kit reached the hell pit only to have to jump aside to avoid a group of stampeding horses, which some enterprising witches were using to try to storm the gate. And then a rogue spell blistered past, caught the edge of his wool cape and set it on fire. He flung off the now deadly garment and started to stamp out the flames, when he caught sight of a nearby guard.

The man had taken a break from combat in order to besport himself with a pretty blond. He had the struggling girl on her back, her dress over her head and his knee between her thighs—until Kit tossed the length of burning wool over his head. It was rather more pleasurable, he decided, stamping out the flames this way, although the guard didn’t seem to agree.

The girl did, though. She scrambled to her feet and kicked the man viciously before sprinting off. But after only a few yards, she turned around, came back and kicked him again. Then she looked at Kit, dropped a small curtsy and fled.

He stared after her, shaking his head. Witches. He was starting to think they were all a bit addled.

And then he was sure of it, as he caught sight of his own particular lunatic attempting to ride a levitating barrel over the walls.

For a moment, he just stared, sure his eyes were playing tricks on him. Until he spied no fewer than five mages heading for the cask and its glowing cargo. Devil take the woman! He sprinted across the battle, cursing, as his witch floated gently to the top of the East Tower.

About halfway across the courtyard, he realized what she was doing. That tower was used as the armory, and it was a safe bet she was trying for the weapons. But he didn’t give much for her chances. The Circle surely had a ward on them, if not on the—

It was on the window. He watched her reach the only one on this side, an elongated type barely wider than the average arrow slit, and cry out. Then a burst of power flared and the barrel shot away from the tower like a ball out of a cannon.

It went sailing off through the air with the witch’s slumped form miraculously still attached. Not that that was in any way positive. She’d have been better served had she fallen off; she might have only broken bone or two that way. As it was, she was headed straight for the heart of the battle.

Kit’s eyes flicked around, even as his brain told him that it was over, that there was nothing to be done, that this was not going to happen—

And then he was running and leaping and grabbing for her as she shot past. Because he’d obviously gone mad at some point and hadn’t noticed. But at least it couldn’t get any worse, he thought, as he hit the side of the cask and held on for dear life.

And then it rolled over and he ended up dangling upside down.

The only reason they weren’t spotted immediately was the thick smoke cover, but there were alarming gaps in it and a hovering cask with two glowing riders was a bit hard to miss. But, on the positive side, his impact had caused their mad conveyance to change course slightly, allowing them to miss the thick of the fight. On the negative, they were now careening for the west wall of the castle at an alarming rate.

He tried to grab the witch and jump off, but she wouldn’t budge. It took him a vital few seconds to realize that she’d lashed herself in place with rope, and by then, it was too late. A huge gray expanse filled his vision and, even with vampire reflexes, they were out of time. He threw his body to the side, causing the barrel to spin—right into the wall.

The impact didn’t break the wood, because it never hit the cold, unforgiving stone. Kit did, at a rate of speed not recommended for vampire-kind. For a moment, it felt like his body had actually merged with the rock, and he wasn’t sure it hadn’t. Because when the barrel suddenly jerked and pulled away from the wall, he was sure some of his hide stayed behind.

There was no time to check, because they weren’t slowing down. The impact should have absorbed most of the forward momentum, but they hadn’t simply wobbled off a few yards and stopped. Instead, the barrel seemed to have a mind of its own, and it was quite obviously demented.

Kit held on, fingers clenched white against the wood, as they swooped around the edge of the ramparts, causing several of the guards who had remained at their posts to have to hit the ground face-first. But others retained their dignity—and their ability to fire. The barrel rolled and plunged, weaving in and out of the cover of smoke, as a rain of arrows shot by. One of them grazed Kit’s arm, leaving a stinging track across his skin, while another buried itself in the wood between his spread legs.

He stared at it wildly—there were certain things he was not willing to sacrifice for queen and country—only to have the witch start kicking at him. It looked like she wasn’t dead, after all, he thought, as a dirty heel smashed into his nose. He grabbed it, trying to see past the blood flying in his face, and caught sight of wild red hair and glaring gray eyes.

“Let go!”

“Do you promise not to kick me again?” he demanded thickly.

“Yes!”

He released her and she jerked her foot back, only to bury it in his throat a moment later. Kit would have cursed, but he thought there was an outside chance he might never talk again. And then a mage jumped him.

Their demented ride immediately took them into the open air once more, the mage holding onto one of Kit’s boots as the vampire tried to kick him off. He finally succeeded, losing a fine piece of footwear in the process, only to have another mage jump at them from the ramparts. Kit tensed, ready for a fight, but the barrel suddenly stopped dead and the man sailed on by, more than four feet off course.

Kit turned his head to grin at the mage and received another kick upside the jaw.

“I’m trying to help you!” he told the witch indistinctly.

“It’s a weak charm! You’re going to wear it out!”

Kit personally thought that would be a vast improvement, particularly when the crazed cask suddenly went into convulsions. He held on, feeling rather like he was trying to break a particularly cantankerous horse, as it bucked and shuddered and shook. And then it suddenly flipped and dove straight for the ground--with him underneath.

He cursed as he was dragged across the battle, through the sides of burning sheds and over piles of debris. The fire worried him most—he’d lost his cloak and his doublet was quickly being shredded, leaving little barrier between the deadly embers and his skin. Thankfully, the barrel didn’t seem to be the patient sort, and a moment later they were back in the air.

Kit decided that enough was enough and snapped the rope holding the witch, preparing to leap off with her, only to be smashed in the face by something huge and heavy. It took him a moment to realize that it was the side of the tower. They had circled back to where this whole crazy ride had started.

And then the equally crazy witch lunged for the spelled window ledge again. “Are you mad?” he asked, grabbing her.

“Let me go!” Her elbow caught him in the stomach, but he grimly held on.

“You’ll get yourself killed! The ward--”

“Is down,” she gasped, struggling. “It expended its energy last time—I can get through now!”

“You can get trapped now,” he shot back. He didn’t understand enough about magic to fully follow what was going on, but the guards running for the base of the tower were all too familiar. As was the spell that hit him in the back a moment later.

For an instant, he thought the witch had thrown it, but she wasn’t even facing his way. As soon as the stun loosened his hold, she grabbed the window ledge and, with a wriggle and a twist, squeezed through. Kit slumped over the barrel, staring blearily down at a red-headed dwarf at the bottom of the tower, who was pointing the witch’s staff and glaring menacingly up at him.

There was little he could do if she chose to hit him again, but instead she glanced behind her at the approaching guards, grabbed the little girl’s hand and towed her away. Kit concentrated on not falling off the barrel, which he might survive, into the forest of guards, which he probably wouldn’t. His head was numb and his fingers clumsy, but he managed to grab the window ledge on the third try and somehow slithered through the opening.

“You complete ass!” The woman looked at him as he collapsed to the floor. “Did you push it away?”

“Push what away?” he asked thickly, trying to figure out which way was up. The stunner had been a strong one, and while he could throw it off, it would be a few minutes. And he wasn’t sure they had that long.

“The barrel!”

She leaned dangerously far out the window, and cursed. A moment later, he managed to sit up, only to have the blunt end of a pike hit him upside the temple. It was a glancing blow, but it slammed his head back into the wall. He sat there, watching the room spin, as several witches fished out the window with the sharp end of the pike.

They resolved themselves into one madwoman a moment later, about the time he heard the approach of far too many mages on the stairs. Of course, in his condition, one might be enough to finish him. Kit staggered to his feet and started toward the door, only to have the witch flap a hand at him. “I warded the room!”

“It won’t hold them for long.”

“It won’t have to.” She’d hooked the barrel—Kit could see it bobbing outside the window--and was in the process of loading it with the contents of a large trunk. “Well, don’t just stand there!” she said frantically. “Help me!”

“Help you do what?”

For an answer she shoved a double handful of wands, charms and bottles of odd,

sludgy substances into his hands. He didn’t know what half the things were, but although some of them buzzed, chimed and rang like a struck tuning fork against his skin, nothing appeared to be attacking him. For a change.

“Put them in,” she said impatiently.

“Put them in the barrel?” he asked slowly, wondering if he was following this at all.

“Yes! By the Goddess, are you always this slow?”

Kit thought that was a trifle unfair, all things considered. But then the door shuddered and he decided to worry about it later. He threw the weapons into the cask, turned and almost bumped into the witch, who was right behind him with another load.

He sidestepped and dragged the heavy trunk over to the window, earning him a brief glance of approval. “I don’t see what good this is going to do,” he pointed out, as they finished cramming the barrel full of the trunk’s contents. “The fight is halfway across the courtyard—”

“As this is about to be.” The witch started to climb out the window, onto the overstuffed cask, when a spell came sizzling through the air. Kit jerked her back and it exploded against the stone, leaving a blackened scar on the tower’s side.

“God’s Bones, woman!” he cursed, fighting an urge to shake her.

“It wasn’t meant to happen this way,” she said, staring blankly at the window. “I planned to have the weapons out before anyone noticed.”

“They appear to have noticed,” Kit said grimly, looking for other options. Unfortunately, there didn’t seem to be any. The room was small and wedge-shaped, with but one door and window, both of which the Circle was now guarding.

She rounded on him. “You should have stayed out of it! If you hadn’t jumped on board they might not have spotted me!”

“If I had stayed out of it, madam, you would be dead,” he snapped. “And I was not the one sending us careening about like a drunken hummingbird.”

“Neither was I!” Gray eyes flashed like lightning. “Winnie thought you were attacking me. She was trying to shake you off.”

“Winnie would be the demented dwarf?”

“She isn’t either,” the witch said heatedly. “And say that sometime in her hearing!”

“I will, should I live so long,” he replied, as the door shuddered again.

The witch stared at it, and then back at the barrel. And then she snatched a wand from

the chest and aimed it at the fully-loaded cask.

“What are you doing?” he demanded, grabbing for her arm. But the stun had made him clumsy and before he could knock it aside, their only way out of this death trap went flying off like a bullet.

“Giving us a fighting chance.”

“That was our chance!”

The witch shook her head violently. “None of us have a prayer if they don’t get that gate open!”

“And now what?”

“Now this.” She rotated her wrist and the barrel followed the motion, spewing its contents across the smoke-blackened scene.

“That wasn’t what I meant!” Kit said, giving into temptation and shaking her. “How do you plan to get out of here?”

She licked her lips. “We fight.”

“With what? You’ve just sent our only weapons to the other side of the castle!”

“Not all of them,” she protested, glancing at the pieces that lay scattered across a nearby table. “As long as it’s only guards, we should be—”

The sound of a heavy fist, pounding on the door, cut her off. “Open in the name of the queen!”

“She isn’t my queen!” the witch yelled.

There was a pause, and then another voice spoke. “Then open in the name of the Circle.”

Chapter Six

Gillian stared at the vampire, who looked blankly back. She didn’t have to ask if he had any ideas. His face was as pale and tight as hers felt.

Outside, someone’s spell smashed the barrel into a thousand pieces, but too late. There was a huge shout from the crowd as the witches realized what had just rained down on them like manna from Heaven. And then the fighting resumed, far more viciously than before.

It was what she’d wanted, what she’d worked for. There was no way of getting Elinor out of here if the gate stayed closed, and no chance to break through without weapons. But the plan had been to ride the barrel back down before sending it off into the fray. Not to get trapped five stories off the ground with the Circle on either exit.

“Master Marlowe,” the mage’s voice came again. “We know you are in there with the witch. Send her out and you may leave peacefully.”

“Peacefully?” The vampire snorted. “Your men attacked me!”

“Because you were protecting the woman. Cease to do so and we will have no quarrel with you. We promised your lady safe passage and we will honor that agreement.”

Gillian braced herself, sure he would take them up on the offer. She had friends who would have abandoned her in such a situation, and she wouldn’t have blamed them. And this man owed her nothing.

But he surprised her. “I have need of the witch,” he said, gripping her arm possessively.

“Then you can petition the council.”

“Would that be the same council that sentenced her to death?” he asked cynically.

“Send her out, or we shall come in and take her.”

The menace in the man’s voice made Gillian shiver, but the vampire just looked puzzled. “Why?” he demanded. “Why risk anything for a common cutpurse? She is of no value to you, while my lady would reward you handsomely—”

The mage laughed. “I am sure she would! Do not think to deceive us. A common cutpurse she may have been, but the guards saw what the old woman did. We know what she is!”

The vampire looked at her, a frown creasing his forehead. “What are you?” he asked softly.

Gillian shook her head, equally bewildered. “Nobody. I…nobody.”

“They appear to feel otherwise,” he said dryly. Sharp dark eyes moved to the table. “I don’t suppose any of those weapons—”

“Magical weapons are like any other kind,” Gillian told him, swallowing. “Someone has to use them.”

“And I’m not a mage.”

“It wouldn’t matter. Two of us against how many of them? No weapon would be enough to even the odds, much less—”

A heavy fist hit the door. Gillian jumped and the vampire’s hand tightened reflexively on her arm. It shouldn’t have been painful, but his fingers closed right over the burn the eldest had given her. She cried out and he abruptly let go, as the mage spoke once more.

“Master Marlowe! I will not ask again!”

“Promises, promises,” the vampire muttered.

Gillian didn’t say anything. She’d pushed up her sleeve to get the fabric off the burn, but no raw, red flesh met her gaze. Instead, she found herself staring in confusion at an ancient, graceful design etched onto her inner wrist.

Her fingers traced the pattern slowly, reverently. It wasn’t finished, with only two of the three spirals showing dark blue against her skin. But there was no doubt what it was. “The triskelion,” she whispered.

“The what?” the vampire asked.

She looked down, in the direction of his voice, and found him sprawled on the floor for some reason. Her head was spinning too much to even wonder why. “It’s the sigil used by the leaders of our covens.”

His eyes narrowed. “A moment ago, you claimed to be of no importance, and now you tell me you’re a coven leader?”

“But that’s just it, I’m not! At least…” Gillian had a sudden flash of memory, of the Great Mother’s hand gripping her arm, of how she had refused to let go even in death--and of the ease with which the elements had come to her aid thereafter. She had put it down to the staff magnifying her magic. But no amount of power should have allowed her to call an element that was not hers.

“At least what?” he asked, getting up with a frustrated look on his face.

“I think there’s a chance that the Great Mother…that she may have—” she stopped, because it sounded absurd to say it out loud—to even think it. But what other explanation was there? “I think she may have passed her position on to me.”

She expected shock, awe, disbelief, all the things she was feeling. But the vampire’s expression didn’t change, except to look slightly confused. And then his head tilted at the sound of some muttering outside. It was too low for her ears to make out, but he didn’t appear to have that problem.

“They’ve sent for a wardsmith,” he said grimly. “Before he arrives and they rush the room and kill us both, would you kindly explain what that means?”

“They offered you safe passage,” Gillian reminded him.

“And I know exactly how much faith to put in that,” he said mockingly, hopping up onto the table. “Now tell me.”

She took a deep breath. “Every coven has a leader, called the Great Mother or the Eldest. In time of peace, she judges disputes, allocates resources and participates in the assembly of elders at yearly meetings. In time of war, she leads the coven in battle.”

He’d been trying to press an ear against the ceiling, but at that he looked down. “And you agreed?” he asked incredulously.

“She asked if I was willing to fight for my own,” Gillian said defensively. “I thought she meant Elinor, to get her out of this…”

“So of course you said yes!”

“I didn’t know she was putting me in charge!”

“That is why the mages marked us,” he said, as if something had finally made sense. “I wondered why they were focused on you when there were dozens of prisoners closer to the gates.”

Gillian shook her head. “They don’t want me, they want this.” She held out the arm with the ward.

“For what purpose?”

“The triskelion gives the Great Mother the ability, in times of danger, to…to borrow… part of the magic of everyone under her control,” she said, struggling for words he would understand. “It’s meant to unite the coven in a time of crisis, allowing its leader to wield an awesome amount of power, all directed toward a single purpose. It’s why the Circle fears them so much, why they’ve hunted them so--”

She broke off as her voice suddenly gave out. The vampire frowned and pulled a flask from under his doublet, bending down to hand it to her. She eyed it warily, thinking of Winnie and her brew, but it turned out to be ale. It was body-warm and completely flat, and easily the best thing she’d ever tasted.

He balanced on the edge of the table in a perilous-looking crouch, regarding her narrowly. “If the ward is that powerful, why did the jailers not take it off the witch once they had her in their grasp?”

“They didn’t know who she was,” Gillian gasped, forcing herself to slow down before she spilled any of the precious liquid. “I didn’t even know. She was dressed in rags, her hair was dirty, her face was haggard--she must have been in disguise and was picked up in a raid.”

“But do not magical objects gave off a residue your people can feel?”

“Yes, but the ward isn’t like a charm—it holds no magic itself when not active. And non-magical items can occasionally be missed in searches.”

“But if it’s so powerful, why didn’t the witch use it herself?”

“She was gagged,” Gillian said, thinking of the disgusting scrap of cloth she’d pulled from the eldest’s mouth. “And by the time I freed her, she was too weak to fight. Goddess knows how long she was in there.”

“So in return for your help, she saddles you with the very thing most likely to get you killed,” he said in disgust.

“She wanted to save her people, and she needed someone strong enough to use the ward!”

“Then I suggest you do so. There are four guards in the chamber below and at least five in the corridor outside—and that is assuming no one is hiding under a silence shield. Above us is the roof of the keep, guarded by four more men who can be called down if needed. And then there’s the two below the window, who are doubtless hoping we’ll poke our heads out again and get them blown off!”

“Fifteen men?” Gillian repeated, appalled. That was three times as many as she’d expected, especially with an escape in progress. What were they all doing here?

“Fifteen war mages.” He smiled grimly. “There is a price to be paid for breaking into the most secure part of the prison.”

“But…but how do we to get past so many?”

“We don’t. I can take three, possibly four with your help. No more. We need a diversion to draw the rest away to have any chance at all.”

Gillian licked her lips, staring at the blank space on her arm where the third spiral of the triskelion should have been. The ward looked oddly lopsided without it, the pattern disjointed and incomplete. Like the connection it was meant to make.

“I…don’t think I can,” she confessed.

“I beg your pardon?” the vampire asked politely.

“This isn’t a complete ward,” she explained. “The triskelion should have three arms, one for each of the three great elements. And this has but two. The other hasn’t manifested, and until it does, the ward won’t function.”

The vampire jumped off the table and grabbed her arm. “You’re sure it had three, when you saw it on the old woman’s wrist?”

“Her title was Eldest and yes! They all do.”

“Then where is the other one?” he demanded suspiciously.

“Well, I don’t have it hidden in my shift!” she said, snatching her arm back. It throbbed with every beat of her heart, a pounding, staccato rhythm that was getting faster by the minute. But she couldn’t afford to panic. Not here, not now. She had to figure this out, and there was an answer—she knew it. Magic had rules and it followed them strictly. She just had to find the ones that applied here.

The vampire must have thought the same, because he straightened his shoulders and took a breath. “How is the sigil usually passed from person to person?”

“There’s a ritual,” she said, trying to concentrate. “The last time it happened in my coven, I was a child. My mother wouldn’t allow me to attend—she thought it too gruesome—”

“Gruesome?”

Gillian hugged her arms around herself. “The new Mother has to run a gauntlet, to prove her fitness to lead. She must summon each of the three elements to her aid, and each time she calls one successfully, that element becomes active on the sigil.”

“What is shocking about that?”

“If she fails, she dies,” Gillian said simply, her chin lifting. Her tone challenged him to denigrate the covens’ traditions as the Circle constantly did. Barbaric, they called them, and backward and crude. But it was for instances like this one that the ritual had been instituted. Only someone with a firm belief in her abilities and an utter devotion to the coven could pass the gauntlet, because only someone with that level of commitment could lead in times like these.

That was the kind of woman the eldest had been, capable and strong, in spirit if no longer in body. But Gillian wasn’t that person. She wasn’t anything anymore.

“And then what?” the vampire demanded.

“Nothing, I…that’s all I can remember. Call the elements and the sigil activates.”

“Well, you must have called two already,” he said, pointing to the two arms of the triskelion. “Which ones?”

“I remember calling Fire,” Gillian told him. “It was in battle. I looked down because my arm hurt and saw the glyph glowing on the staff. I wondered why I was able to summon it when I never could before.”

“And the other?”

“That has to be Wind--my own element. It didn’t hurt, so I can’t be sure, but I think it came in when the Circle’s men attacked us the first time.”

“When you blew their weapons back at them.”

“Yes.”

“Then which one is missing?”

“Earth,” she whispered, her eyes going to the window as the full implication hit.

His eyes narrowed at her tone. “Why is that a problem?”

“Because Wind comes from air and I was standing right by a burning hut when I called Fire!”

“And?”

“And I need to be near an element to summon it.”

His own eyes widened as comprehension dawned. “And we’re five stories up.”

Chapter Seven

Gillian didn’t have a reply, but she couldn’t have made one anyway. Because the next moment, the assault on the door resumed. Only this time, it sounded like a battering ram had been brought up. The door shuddered under massive blows, the ward around it sparking and spitting.

The vampire swore. “I didn’t think they would find a wardsmith so quickly.”

“They didn’t, or they wouldn’t be trying to batter their way in! They were probably lying before, hoping you’d hear.”

“Then we’re safe for the moment?”

“No,” she admitted. “Wards like this are tied to the integrity of an item. Just as a shattered charm loses its magic, the ward will fail as soon as the door suffers enough damage.”

“And when will that be?”

She stared at the tiny fractures already visible in the wood and swallowed. “Not long.”

“It doesn’t make sense,” he said angrily. “If you were going to use the sigil, you would have done so before now. They must know that you can’t. Yet half the war mages in the prison are here, instead of at the gates!”

Gillian shook her head. She’d had the same question, and he was right, it didn’t make sense. She couldn’t direct the fight from here, not that anyone was likely to listen to her anyway. The witches had fled before the eldest died; they hadn’t seen what had happened.

She was, she realized with sudden clarity, about to die for a position nobody even knew she had.

“You’ve already sent most of the weapons that were here to the battle and the Circle has men watching the window in any case,” the vampire fretted. “They can’t be concerned about you sending more. Why waste this many men on a single woman who isn’t even a threat?”

Gillian started to shake her head again, but then she stopped, staring down at her wrist. And just like that, she understood. “They’re not,” she said blankly.

“They’re not what?”

Her hand closed over the ward, but she could still feel it, carved into her flesh like a brand. “They’re not aiming for one witch,” she said, looking up at him as it all came together in a rush, like a riddle that had needed but one final clue. “This is about destroying all of us!”

“I don’t understand.”

“There is no such thing as a one-way street in magic. Anything that can give power can also be used to take it!”

“You’re talking about the triskelion.”

She nodded frantically. “It links all the witches under the eldest’s control. If the Circle gets their hands on it, they can use it to bleed each and every one of them dry! It doesn’t matter if they run, if they hide--” she broke off abruptly, thinking of Winnie. Gillian had given her the staff, hoping its power would allow her to hide herself and Elinor. But if the Circle obtained the ward, it wouldn’t matter how well they were hidden.

They could be killed just the same.

Gillian felt her blood run cold.

“But the ward isn’t complete,” the vampire protested. “If you cannot use it, how can they?”

“By putting me under a compulsion, by forcing me to call the last sigil—and then using me to drain every last person here!”

“But surely, not everyone here was a member of the same coven.”

“It doesn’t matter! Magical objects follow simpler rules than humans do. And a coven, in the loosest sense, is a group of magic workers under the leadership of an elder. And she was the most senior witch here.”

“You’re saying that the ward thinks the whole prison was her coven?” he asked doubtfully.

“Which she passed on to me,” Gillian said numbly, staring at the window. The setting sun was shining through drifting clouds of smoke, casting a reddish light into the room. She couldn’t see the battlefield from where she stood, but it didn’t matter. The real battle wasn’t going to be fought down there.

It seemed hopeless. The Circle held all the cards; they had from the start. There were too many of them and too few coven witches, and unlike the Great Mothers, they had no sense of community, no reverence for ancient ways, no respect for a magic so different from their own. They had never meant to work with anyone. From the beginning, their strategy had been subjugation or destruction.

It was their game, and they had already won.

But they wouldn’t win completely.

“Kill me,” Gillian said harshly, as the pounding on the door took on a strange kind of rhythm, like the furious drumming in her chest.

“What?” The vampire had been staring at the window, too, as if in thought. But at that, his eyes swiveled back to her.

“I won’t let them do it,” she told him flatly. “I won’t let them use me to destroy everyone else. I can’t save myself, but I’ll die on my own terms, as the old Mother did. A free coven witch and damn them all!”

“And yet you’ll still be dead,” he said sharply.

“Nothing can stop that now.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not. If you will give me but a moment to think—”

“We don’t have a moment,” she said, grabbing his arms. “Do as I ask or it will be too late!”

“You don’t understand,” he told her, and for the first time since they’d met, he looked unsure of himself. “The thought occurred to me, as well, but it isn’t that simple.”

“Your kind does it all the time!”

“We do no such thing!” His dark eyes flashed. “Those who join us are chosen very carefully. Not everyone is fit for this life, and it does little good to go to the trouble of Changing someone merely to have them—”

“Changing?” It took her a moment to realize what he meant, and then her fingers dug into his arms. “You’re saying that—you mean can—” she broke off, the implications staggering her.

He was talking about making her into one of them, about turning her into a monster. She shuddered in instinctive revulsion, her skin going clammy at the very thought. Walking undead, drinkers of blood, merciless killers—every horror story about the breed she’d ever heard rang in her mind like the clanging of a bell. She couldn’t--

But it would work. Coven magic was living magic, based on the deep old secrets of the earth. And its creations were living things, tied to the life of the one who bore them. If she died, the ward died with her. It was why they had to be passed from elder to elder before death, or new ones had to be created.

And it didn’t get much deader than a vampire.

It was the only way to survive this. The only way to see Elinor again, to be there as she grew up, to protect her. It wouldn’t be anything like the life she’d hoped to have, the one she’d dreamed of for them. But it would be something.

And that was more than her own kind were willing to offer.

“Do it,” she told him. “Make me one of you.”

The vampire scowled. “As I informed you, it is not that easy. And there is a chance that it could make things even worse.”

Gillian severely doubted that. “The Circle promised you safe passage if you ceased to protect me,” she reminded him. “If they find me dead, there’s a good chance they’ll leave you alone rather than risk making an enemy of your mistress. They have enough of those as it is!”

“That isn’t the point--”

“Then what is?” she demanded desperately. The wood of the door was starting to splinter. They had minutes, maybe less, and she wasn’t sure how long the process took.

“The point is that I am not sure how,” he admitted, with faint spots of color blooming high on his cheeks.

“But…but you’re a master,” she said, bewildered. “You have to be! You’ve been running about in broad daylight for the last hour!”

“Yes, but…” he sighed and ran a hand through his curls. “It is too complex to explain fully, but essentially…my Lady Pushed me.”

“Pushed? What--”

“It is done when a master wishes to elevate a servant’s rank quickly. A great deal of power is…is shoved through a subject all at once,” he told her, swallowing. “It is rarely done, because many times, the subject involved does not survive. But the threats against her Majesty were grave enough to make my Lady decide that she needed someone on the inside, and no one in her stable was qualified. But a newly-made vampire has many weaknesses that—”

“Newly-made?” Gillian grasped onto the one thing in all that which made sense. “How new?”

He licked his lips. “A few years.”

“A few years?”

“If you round up.”

Gillian felt her stomach plummeting. “You’re telling me you’ve never Changed anyone before?”

“I never had cause,” he said, looking defensive.

“Didn’t they train you?” she demanded, suddenly furious. She had found a way out of this, against all the odds, she had found a way. And he didn’t know how?

“It is rather like sex,” he snapped. “The theory and the practice being somewhat different!”

“You have to try!”

“You don’t understand. It is a little-known fact that newly-minted masters, even those who took centuries to reach that mark, often have…mishaps…before they succeed in making their first Child. If I do this incorrectly—”

“Then I’ll be dead,” she said harshly. “Which is what I will be when the Circle finishes with me in any case.” She took off her kerchief, baring her neck before she could talk herself out of this. “Do it.”

For a moment, she was certain he would refuse. And why shouldn’t he, she thought bitterly. It sounded like masters changed only those who could be helpful to them in some way, and she’d been little enough use to anyone alive. Why should dead be any different?

But then he swallowed and stepped closer, his hands coming up to rest on her shoulders. There was fear in his eyes, and it looked odd on that previously self-assured face. Like the bruises purpling along his jaw and cheek, wounds his kind weren’t supposed to get. Her hand instinctively lifted to touch them, and found his skin smooth and blood warm, nothing like the stories said.

She stared at him, wondering if his kind felt pain, if they felt love, if they felt. She didn’t know. She didn’t know anything about them but rumors and stories, most of which, she was beginning to realize, had likely been fabricated by people who knew even less than she.

“Try to relax,” he murmured, and she wasn’t sure whether he was talking to her or himself. But then his eyes lightened to a rich, honey-gold, as if a candle had been lit behind them. The pounding on the door receded, fading into nothingness, and the cool breeze flowing through the window turned warm. Incredibly, she felt some of the stiffness leave her shoulders.

For a moment—until his lips found her neck and she faltered in cold panic, the soft touch causing her heart to kick violently against her ribs. Her hands tightened on his sleeves, instinct warring with instinct—to push him away, to pull him closer, the will to live fighting with the need to die.

“I’m not doing this correctly,” he said, feeling her tremble. “You should not feel fear.”

“Everyone fears death, unless they have nothing to live for.”

“And you have much.”

She nodded, mutely. She hadn’t realized until that moment how focused she’d been on all that she’d lost, instead of on what remained. She didn’t want to die. She wasn’t supposed to die, not here, not now. She knew it with a certainty at war with all reason.

“I cannot do this if you fight me,” he told her simply. “Humans tell stories of us forcibly Changing them against their will, but that rarely happens. It is difficult enough when the subjects are willing, when they want what we have to offer.”

“And what is that?” she asked, trying for calm despite the panic ringing in her bones.

“For most? Power, or the possibility of it. Wealth—few masters are poor, and their servants want for nothing. And, of course, the chance to cheat death. Quite a few transition in middle age, when their bodies begin to show wear, when they realize how short a mortal life really is.”

Gillian shook her head in amazement, that anyone would throw away something so precious for such scant reward. “But few become masters, isn’t that right?” He nodded. “So the power is in another’s hands, as is the wealth, to give or withhold as he chooses. And as for death—” This didn’t feel like a cheat to her. It felt like giving up. It felt like the end.

The vampire smiled, softly, sadly. “You are a poor subject, Mistress Urswick. You are not grasping enough. What you want, you already have; you merely wish to keep it.”

“But I’m not going to keep it, am I?” The terror faded as that certainty settled into her bones. She had one chance, here and now, and it would never come again. She could let fear rob her of it and die, or she could master herself and live. A strange life, to be sure, but life, nonetheless.

“Do you wish to proceed?” he asked her, watching her face.

Gillian took a deep breath, and then she nodded.

Chapter Eight

He didn’t tell her again that this might not work. He didn’t tell her anything at all. But golden threads of a magic she didn’t know suddenly curled around her hands where they rested on his arms. She had always thought vampires were creatures of the dark, but the same bright magic shone around him as his hands came up to bracket her face.

“I don’t know your first name,” he whispered, against her lips.

“Gillian,” she told him, hearing her voice tremble.

“Gillian,” he repeated, and her name in his voice was full of so much longing that it coiled in her belly, dark and liquid, like her own emotion. And perhaps it was. Because when he suddenly bit down on her lower lip, the sensation left her trembling, but not with fear.

He made a low noise in his throat and pulled her close. The same strange magic that twisted around them sparked off his fingers wherever they touched her, like rubbed wool in winter. The tiny flashes of sensation had her arching helplessly against him, one hand clenched on his shoulder, the other buried in the heavy silk of his hair.

She could taste her own blood, hot and coppery, on his tongue as he drove the kiss deep, and it drew a sound from her, something animal and desperate. She gulped for air when he pulled back, almost a sob. She wanted—she wanted more than this; his hands on her body, his skin against hers, his tongue tracing the tiny wound he’d made—

But when he returned, it wasn’t to her lips.

A brilliant flash of pain went through her, like a shock of cold water, as his fangs slid into the flesh of her neck. She drew in a stuttering breath, but before she could cry out, a rush of rich, strong magic flooded her senses, spreading heat through every fiber of her body. She’d always thought of vampires as taking, but this was giving, too, an impossibly intimate sharing that she’d never even dreamed was—

He didn’t move, but it suddenly felt like he was inside her, thrusting all that power into her very core. She shuddered and opened to him, helpless to resist, the vampire shining on her and in her, elemental and blazing and gone past human. The pain was gone, the magic driving that and everything else away, crashing over her like ocean waves, an unrelenting and unending tide. She screamed beneath it, because it couldn’t be borne and had to be; because there was no bracing to meet it and no escape; and because it would end, and that would be even harder to bear.

“Gillian.” It took her a moment to realize he had drawn back, with the tide of magic still surging through her veins. It felt like sea, ebbing and flowing in pounding waves that shook the very foundations of—

She blinked, and realized that it wasn’t just the vampire’s magic making the room shake. It wasn’t even the pounding on the door, which seemed to have stopped in any case. She frowned and watched as the few remaining charms jittered and danced off the table, all on their own.

“What is it?” she asked, bemused. The vampire pulled her to the window, and leaned out, dangerously far. “What are you doing?” she tried to pull him back. “They’ll kill you!”

“I don’t think so,” he said, his voice sounding as stunned as she felt.

“Why not?”

“Because I believe you may have completed that ward, after all.”

He backed away from the window and she moved forward, in time to see what looked like a black wave crash into the side of the tower, shaking it to its very foundation. She blinked, dizzy from blood loss and still burning with strange energy. And then another wave started for them, rising out of the earth of the courtyard, and she understood.

“In defense of your life,” the vampire said, with quiet irony.

Gillian looked down to see the third spiral of the triskelion, glowing bright against her wrist. She traced it with a finger and power shivered in the air for a moment, before melting back into her skin, joining the tide swelling within her.

“I think it might be best if it didn’t hit,” he said, glancing from the approaching wave to the cracks spidering up the old walls. “Can you stop it?”

“I don’t want to stop it,” she told him, flexing her fingers and feeling the warmth of deep rich soil beneath her hands, the whisper of the age old magic of the earth in her ears. But there was something else there, too, alien and strange, but powerful, all the same. It wasn’t the vampire’s rich, golden energy, but colder, more metallic, more—

She laughed, suddenly understanding what the old Mother had meant. “You’ll have all the power you need,” she repeated.

“What?”

“The Mother didn’t just link the witches into her coven,” she told him delightedly. “She linked the mages, too!”

He stared at her, and then back at the awesome power of the land rising to meet them. “That’s…very interesting, but I think we had better jump before the next wave hits.”

“Let the Circle jump!” she said, and pushed out.

The magic flowing along her limbs followed the motion—and so did the earthen tide. It paused almost at the tower base, trembling on the edge of breaking like a wave about to crest. And then it surged back in the other direction.

Masses of black soil rippled out in concentric circles from the base of the tower, flowing like water toward the old fortress walls. They hit like the surf on the beach, crashing into stone and old mortar already riddled with tiny fissures from years of neglect. The fissures became cracks, the cracks became gaps, and still the waves came. Until the earth shifted beneath the foundations and the stones slipped loose from each other and the walls crumbled away.

There were shouts and curses from the guards who fell with the walls, and from the bewildered mages who suddenly found themselves at the center of a pile of spread-out rubble. But the witches were eerily silent, turning as one to look up at the tower for a long, drawn out moment. And then they gave an ancient battle cry that raised the hair on Gillian’s arms.

And charged as one.

* * *

“Nope, nothing.” The distant, muffled voice came from somewhere above him, right before something was slammed down through the dirt, barely missing his head.

Kit swiveled his eyes to the side to stare at it. It was wood, as thick around as his wrist and pointed slightly at one end. A fine specimen of a stake, he thought, with blank terror.

“Are you sure you saw him over here?”

That was the witch. Gillian. He tensed at her voice, trying to force something, anything past his lips. He wasn’t sure if he succeeded, but the stake was removed.

“Aye, although I don’t know why ye care,” the other voice said. “He’s a vampire. He’ll just feed off ye again.”

“He didn’t feed off me the first time,” the witch said. “I told you, he was helping me.”

“Strange kind ‘o help that leaves ye pale and sweating,” the other voice grumbled, right before the stake was slammed down again--between his legs.

His alarmed grunt must have been audible that time, because the witch’s voice came again, closer this time. “Don’t move, Winnie.”

Kit lay there, his heart hammering in his chest in rapid beats that his kind weren’t supposed to have. But then, they weren’t supposed to panic, either. And that was clearly a bunch of—

“Found him!” The witch’s excited voice came from just above him, and there was a sudden lessening of the weight of the earth pressing down on his limp body.

It took ten minutes for them to haul him out, either because the witches had expended their magic destroying the jailers, or because no one cared to use any on a vampire. Certainly the sour-faced dwarf who finally uncovered his head looked like she’d much rather just heap the dirt back where they’d found it, possibly after using her massive stake one more time. But the witch got hands under his arms and pulled him out of the hole in a series of sharp tugs.

She laid him on the ground and bent over him, her unbound hair falling onto his filthy face. “Are you all right?” she asked distinctly.

Kit tried to answer, but only succeeded in causing his tongue to loll out of his mouth. He tasted dirt. She pushed it back in, looking worried.

“What’s wrong with him?” she asked the dwarf, who was suddenly looking more cheerful.

“One too many stun spells, looks like to me,” she said cheerfully. “And he didn’t get out ‘o the way fast enough when the tower came down.” She poked at him with her toe. “Be out of it for a while, he will.”

She moved away, probably off to terrorize someone else, and the witch knelt by his side. “We can’t stay,” she told him, trying to brush a little of the caked dirt off him. “The Circle probably knows about this already, or if they don’t, they soon will. We have to go while we still have a head start.”

Kit coughed up a clod of dirt from lungs that felt bone dry. He strongly suspected that he’d swallowed a good deal of it, too, but mercifully, the witch had found his flask and filled it with water. He gulped it gratefully, despite the unpleasant sensation of mud churning in his stomach.

It managed to rinse enough soil loose from his vocal chords for a dry whisper. “You…came back,” he croaked.

She brushed dirty hair out of his eyes, causing a little cascade down the back of his ruined shirt. “Of course. What did you expect?”

“I…wasn’t sure.” He licked his lips and drank a little more with her help. “We…had a deal, but…many people…”

She frowned slightly. “What deal?”

“I help you…you…help me.”

“I did help you,” she said, the frown growing. “Winnie wasn’t the only one who wanted to stake you.”

He shook his head, sending a cloud of dust into the air. “No. You promised…”

“I’m not going with you,” she told him flatly. “I have a child to think about. I have to get her out of England.”

“You…you’re Great Mother now,” he protested. “You can’t leave.”

“Watch me,” she said viciously. She gestured around at the tumbled rubble. “This is what the Circle brings. Nothing but ruins and destruction, everywhere they go. I’m not raising a child in constant peril!”

If he’d had any saliva, Kit would have pointed out that the Circle hadn’t turned a perfectly good, if slightly dilapidated castle into a pile of rocks. But he didn’t, and she didn’t give him the chance in any case.

“And as for the other, you cannot have a coven of one. And I’m shortly going to be the only one left. Everyone else is going back to their own people, to regroup, to plan, to hide…” she shrugged. “It’s a new world, now that the covens are gone. And we each have to find our own role in it.”

He lay there, watching the last rays of the setting sun blaze through her glorious hair. And wished his damn throat would unfreeze. He had a thousand things to say and no time to say them. “If you’re not…going to stay. Why look for me?” he finally managed.

She bent down, her face softening, sweet lips just grazing his. “To say thank you,” she whispered. “Winnie will never understand but…I was there. I know. You could have finished what you started.”

“Not…unwilling.”

She smiled, a little tearfully. “And if ever anyone was to convince me…”

He caught her hand as she started to rise. “Stay,” he said urgently. “You don’t…I can show you things…wonders—”

“You already have.”

She kissed him, with feeling this time, until his head was spinning from more than just the spells. She didn’t say anything when she drew back, but she pushed his hanging mouth closed with a little pop. Then she jumped to her feet and ran for the distant tree line.

But after only a few yards, she stopped, paused for a moment, and then ran back. And relieved him of his ring. “Travelling money,” she said, with a faintly apologetic look. And then she took off again.

Kit stared after her until the gathering shadows swallowed her up. Witches. He’d been right all along. They were completely mad.

He smiled slightly, his lips still tingling from her final touch. But what glorious madness.

The End

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The Gauntlet