Otherworldly Discipline: A Witch's Lesson (11 page)

Lastly, Ashcroft Medwin was positively gorgeous when he was angry. And he was angry with her as often as she was angry with him—which was all the time.

She was angry at everyone, and she knew it was because of ‘the sleep issue’. One that she knew Moriarty could resolve if he’d just let her sleep with him. But he hadn’t since that night before Ashcroft came home; he was very angry with her for trying to sneak into his bedroom one night, moving quietly and settling slowly into his bed to sleep next to him. He threw her out of his room by her ear, not even letting her beg.

And what was her other options? To snuggle in with Ashcroft? Unlikely. He’d probably be just as angry with her, too. Moriarty was absolutely wrong; that man did not like her one iota. He tolerated her at best.

Although there had definitely been moments of tenderness, where she and Ashcroft had actually gotten on famously since he’d returned from the Southern Realm. Never during the daytime when he was trying to teach, of course. She still couldn’t stand being told what to do.

Yet one of her favorite parts of the day was their after-supper ritual where they’d sit in front of the fire.  Moriarty would smoke his cigars, Ashcroft would read his books; both of the men sitting on chairs. And she would sit on the floor on a cushion, her back against Ashcroft’s boots as if she was his leg warmer, playing a hand-held Nintendo game or reading a romance novel.

And they would have the best conversations—especially since Moriarty and Ashcroft had such a tightly knit history that their story telling was hilarious; every time one would try to boast about something they did during a battle or amidst an adventure, the other would interrupt, “My ass. You didn’t say that at all! You looked like you were nigh about to piss yourself when they attacked
,
” or “You only tried that because you were drunk
,
” even, “No. No, that never happened, you lying bastard
.
” She would sometimes giggle herself to exhaustion, but she would still pull herself to bed, wake up at the first howl coming from outside, and then stare bleary-eyed and trembling at the shadow-covered ceiling for the rest of the night.  

She knew that she couldn’t sleep without feeling that she was protected, and she simply didn’t feel that way. Not just because of the noise, but because of the way the small hairs on her neck stood up on end as soon as the light went off, leaving her alone in the Otherworldly darkness, feeling like something was coming her way. The night Moriarty had slept with her, she had slept a whole seven hours straight, and they felt like the best seven hours of her life. She felt like she could bounce off the walls with energy the next morning.

Now she felt sluggish and surly, ready to snap at anybody and everything that even looked at her wrong. She had to perform a small spell on her eyes to keep back the bruises that she’d climb out of bed with, or the redness covering the white of her eyes; both markers that she had failed to sleep the night through. But she couldn’t allow Ashcroft to know—she couldn’t help being embarrassed over her fears; she felt like she was a child who needed to sleep with the light on, and knew that if he’d found out, he’d simply treat her even more so. And she so wanted him to view her more as a peer than as his ward...

But her weariness was probably why she nearly threw a tantrum when Ashcroft grabbed her arm tightly in the middle of studies, stomped downstairs with her, and sent her outside with a rake to do lawn work, telling her to work off her horrid attitude.

Of course it got her in an even more ‘horrid
’
mood—especially when the trees tried in avertedly to ‘help her out’ by releasing the rest of the dead leaves from their branches so she wouldn’t have to come out again. It was a kind gesture that she didn’t really appreciate. But then, she was sure trees weren’t known for their smarts. 

When a sudden wind blew her shawl out of the garden, she swore and took off after it.

And then the burning started—the incessant burning by her ankle. It wasn’t just unpleasant, it was unbearable. The pain was sharp, and very real. She reached down and pulled upon the dragon crystal cuff, trying to pluck it away from her skin, but it started to burn at her fingers. She limped pathetically back into the garden, panting from the pain.

It was beginning to finally die down a little, but her skin was still tender there, and it was also tender at her fingers, which were still a bright pink color. Angry, she began to shed hot tears, pulling her knees up to her chest as she sat on the cold ground.

“Now what would a Byndian have to cry about?” a voice asked from over her head.

Her head snapped up. Right in front of her was a very tall, lean, blond man with a very handsome face with a pronounced cleft chin and very white teeth. “I—I’m not crying,” she denied, rubbing the tears off her face. “Who are you?” she demanded hotly, and sniffled.

“A wizard.”

She was unsurprised by this. He looked like a wizard—something in the way he pulled back his shoulders like he fancied himself incredibly important, or maybe something about the wear on his dragon-skin boots. “Welcome to the club. Ashcroft’s that-a-way. Have at. See if you can get him out of my hair.” She jerked her thumb in the direction of the tower.

“I don’t see how anybody would want to go talk with Ashcroft, who has all the humor of a cup of vinegar, when they could simply talk to the lady of the house,” he drawled, waving his wrist around before extending his hand to help her to her feet. She gave him the hand she didn’t burn, but she certainly leaned most of her weight on the leg she hadn’t burned with the cuff.

He looked down and clicked his tongue sympathetically. “Oh, you poor dear. Is Ashcroft keeping you prisoner here?” He picked up her burnt hand and inspected it, frowning. He brought her hand up to his lips, and it immediately felt better.

She sighed with relief, although her heart fluttered when she felt his lips upon her skin.

“How could he do this to someone as sweet as you?” he asked sympathetically.

“Easily. He doesn’t think I’m sweet,” she replied. “And I’m not,” she added with honesty. “And he thinks I would run away if he didn’t cuff me. And I might,” she informed. “And he thinks I’m a bad student, and I am.” She shook her head, amazed that she was telling a complete stranger all this. She looked back towards the tower just to gaze ruefully at it.

But he just smiled at her as if he hadn’t yet realized she was odd. “Do you think he’d let you go if you were a better student, then? Or maybe he’d like you better?”

She shrugged, but then stooped down and adjusted her cuff, which dug into her burnt skin. She winced. “Possibly. I don’t know. I’d like to think so, but it doesn’t matter. I’m simply not.”

“Oh, I could make you better. Much better. How would you like to have the knowledge of Ashcroft’s entire library in your mind in an instant?”

She looked back up at him and stood up again. She raised a dubious eyebrow. “If that was possible, he would have done it himself.”

The blonde wizard snorted. “Unlikely. Do you think he would really give up the ability to lord his knowledge over you for years? I don’t think you realize how much he enjoys this sort of thing—being the smartest in the room.” The wizard’s lip curled with obvious disdain. “No, he keeps his knowledge quite to himself—God forbid someone be smarter than him. Trust me, I know him too well.”

She tilted her head to the side, look him over. “Who are you?” she asked.

He smiled widely. “Lachlan Medwin, of the Western Realm,” he introduced with a bow. He looked up and winked. “Has Ashy told you about me at all?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “You’re… you’re a
Medwin
? Are you related?”

Lachlan blinked a long blink. “Brothers, unfortunately.”

Charlotte couldn’t help being surprised, thinking at first that the two wizards looked nothing alike. But now she could see similarities. She just hadn’t noticed because the man before her wasn’t so heavily sca
r
red, and was blonder and leaner. But they did have similar faces. Why wouldn’t have Ashcroft talked about him? Why wouldn’t her parents have mentioned in all their talking of Ashcroft never to mention his brother? The name was so unfamiliar.

Although, the man before her seemed nice enough—sympathetic and soft-spoken. And what he was offering was… well, quite generous. Too
generous. “Well, say you do have such a spell. Why would you give it to me?”

“I can’t stand to see a lady so upset,” he explained innocently. “But it would be a trade. I can’t do this sort of magic for free. Literally, I cannot,” he explained. “Once word got out I did a favor without contract, I’d never hear the end of it!” That was the sound of a true Archivist. Contracts always had to be involved. Archivists would write a contract for everything. A trade would have to be made—a give and get.

She frowned. “I don’t have anything,” she told him. “I’m only nineteen, you see, and—”

“A kiss, then?” He pulled out a scroll from inside of his cloak. “A kiss in return for knowledge that might please that old conjurer?”

She bit her lip, blushing. “I… I don’t know.” She’d never kissed before. Although, he was handsome enough that the idea wasn’t repulsive. In fact, she found herself feeling flattered.

“You don’t think it would be worth it?” he asked, sounding offended. “It’s so much work and toil and heartbreak. All that can be avoided… And a little flower as delicate as you can’t be burdened with study day in and day out, like you were some Archivist and not the last Byndian!”

She thought about this, her head tilting to the side. “Just a kiss?”

He nodded. Suddenly, he chuckled. Probably because she looked nervous. “First kiss, then?”

She blushed. “Well… It’s… I…”

“You won’t regret it,” he told her. “There are worse people to kiss, I assure you.”

She smirked. “Alright—so…”

“You have to sign this first.” He passed her a scroll and a pen.

“Sign?” she asked wearily, but accepted them. She opened the scroll and looked upon it. “This isn’t even in English.”

“No, of course not. Only Ashcroft is untraditional enough to write contracts in ENGLISH—which isn’t his first language. Unseemly is what it is,” Lachlan said with a sigh. “But let me tell you—there’s no funny business. One perfectly chaste kiss for one magic pill. When you have it, walk up to his study where all his books are, and swallow it. Easy as that.”

“No small print, then, right? There seems like there’s a lot of words there.”

“Oh, it’s all legalese,” he complained. “But as you can see, none of the print is small. No funny business,” he repeated.

She bit her lip and, holding the pen awkwardly, signed it. The paper hardened and flattened underneath the pen. The ink came out like liquid gold upon the page.

The hairs on the back of her neck rose again as he pulled the page from her and rolled it up. He stood close to her, and gently put his hands on her waist. “You’re so beautiful,” he told her, gazing and brushing his thumb against her bottom lip. “The last Byndian—Queen of the Elements. So young.”

Having immediate flashbacks to the water demon, she faltered. “You’re not going to… eat me, right?” she said, suddenly taking a step back.

He chuckled. “No. I promise. No cannibalism,” he replied teasingly. “I’m just savoring the moment.”

“You’d better hurry before somebody sees you… touching me,” she replied awkwardly.

He brought his hand up under her chin and pulled it up towards him, lowering his lips to hers.

The kiss wasn’t at all chaste. It was devouring. He traced his tongue along her lips and d
r
ove it into her mouth; the hands around her waist dug into her dress and pulled her body close to his. She heard him moan, but she was too winded to do anything—her mind was racing.

To her own surprise, her body flushed hotly, the more shameful parts of her felt more
shameful—they tingled with a feeling utterly foreign to her. Her nipples hardened, her breath panted.

But then he finally pulled away from her, leaving her looking up at him with dilated eyes.  He brushed his thumb over her cheek and then pulled something out of his cloak. It was a small, velvet bag. “For you, my sweet,” he told her, pressing it in her hand and curling her fingers over it. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

She blushed and shook her head. “N-no, I guess not…” she replied sheepishly, then looked down at the velvet bag in her hand. “Are… are you going to come inside?”

“No. My visit was to simply pay my respects to the head of the Byndian faction,” he bowed respectfully. He grinned as he straightened. “In fact, it would probably be better you don’t mention me at all. Surely, old Ashy wouldn’t see this as appropriate—kissing in the garden and all. Knowing him, he wouldn’t like the idea of instant results, either; it would only make him jealous. So say nothing. Wouldn’t want to get you into trouble.”

Out of nowhere, as if he had it behind his back the whole time, he pulled out the shawl that had gotten away from her, and pulled it over her shoulders.

“So… So you’re just leaving?” she asked, her heart pacing.

“I’ll be back soon. Next time to visit Ashy, no doubt.” He grinned back. “But this will be our little secret.” He gave a playful tap onto the end of her nose, and then turned to walk away.