Teresa Medeiros (44 page)

A booming request for prayer rose above the shrill cries for blood. Arthur bowed his head, keeping one eye open and on Tristan. He sped through the Lord’s Prayer with such haste that he left out half the words and mispronounced the rest.

Tristan stared straight ahead, the coarse rope chafing his neck. “I’m sorry about this, Cop. I didn’t think it would end this way.”

“Don’t kick yourself. I’m the one who invited you to this party. If there is a next time though, I’d advise you not to make your wife so angry she leaps at the chance to drop a noose over your head.”

An unfair pang of anger at Arian’s desertion stabbed him. “We shouldn’t have to worry about a next time. I predict that Arthur’s desire to see us dead should override even his love of being the center of attention.”

He was proved right as Arthur shot out a garbled “Amen” and danced across the scaffold, nearly tripping in his haste.

“I’d like to register a formal complaint,” Cop said.
“I was not offered a last request. It is well within my legal rights to demand a final cigarette or a kiss from one of those comely wenches screaming for my blood or maybe just a piping hot pepperoni pizza.”

“Shut up, Injun,” Arthur hissed, pretending to offer up a pious prayer for their soon-to-be-departed souls. “You and the golden boy here will wake up in hell before you know it.”

“I’ll be waiting for you there,” Tristan promised. “When you crawl through those gates, mine will be the first face you see.”

Arthur arched an eyebrow. “Then I shall endeavor to make the best of the time left to me on this earth. I can’t help but notice what a lovely young woman my daughter has turned out to be. Of course, no one in New York knows that Arian is my daughter so I doubt there will be much gossip when we take up residence as husband and wife.”

“Why, you perverted son of a—” Stymied by rage at the depth of his ex-friend’s depravity, Tristan drove his knee into Arthur’s groin.

“Hang them,” the good Reverend croaked, sinking to one knee.

The platform shuddered with each of the tanner’s long strides. Arthur crawled backward, supporting his weight on his good hand. Tristan pressed his shoulder to Copperfield’s, as if he could somehow buoy him up when the trapdoor separating them from death swung out from beneath their feet. He lifted his gaze above the frenzied crowd to the ebony canopy of the sky, remembering a glittering New York skyline and the sweet warmth of Arian’s body nestled against his own.

Fire streaked across the horizon like a ray of hope.

Tristan blinked. He might have believed he had imagined it had Copperfield’s elbow not dug into his ribs with jarring force. The mob sucked in a collective gasp as the fire plummeted, then shot skyward, blazing itself across the sky in an arc aimed straight for the clearing.
A maniacal cackle of laughter that would have done the Wicked Witch of the West proud raised every hair on Tristan’s nape to tingling life.

His heart swelled with pride as the broom swooped out of the sky, giving him his first clear look at the angel-faced witch perched astride it, a flaming torch clutched in her hand.

The mob scattered at her approach. A shriveled old woman dropped to her stomach, shrieking with fright as Arian’s rippling cloak passed over her prostrate form, reeking of fire and brimstone. Arthur dragged himself to his feet, his skin clinging to his sharpened bones until his face resembled a death mask.

The broom darted upward, circled the clearing twice, then dove straight for the scaffold.

“The lever!” Arthur screamed. “Pull the goddamned lever!”

The tanner’s hand was already gripping the lever, but the huge man stood transfixed by the ball of fire hurtling toward him out of the darkness. Arian was near enough for Tristan to see the mischievous sparkle in her eyes before the giant lost his nerve and leapt off the scaffold, bellowing in terror. Arian swooped past, her hair billowing behind her in a dark cloud of retribution.

Her voice floated back to him. “I’ll be back … don’t go anywhere …”

“I wasn’t planning to,” he muttered, tugging vainly at the cord binding his wrists.

Arthur lurched toward the lever, one hand cupping his groin. Cop stuck out his foot and he tripped, falling with a jolt that shook the scaffold.

Arian swooped past again, hanging upside down by one knee. “Tristan, help! I’m not very good at this! What should I do?” Her screech faded and she was gone again.

“The rope, Arian!” he shouted. “Burn the rope!” His cry was nearly drowned out by the terrified shrieks of the fleeing mob.

Arthur raised himself to hands and knees. Cop tangled
his hands in Tristan’s bonds and jerked, a steady stream of profanity pouring from his lips. Arthur’s arm stretched toward the lever.

“Aaaiiiiiiieeeee!” Arian swept past, right side up, but backward. She took a frantic swipe at the rope securing the nooses with her torch. The odor of burning hemp flooded Tristan’s nostrils.

He and Copperfield jumped as one man at the precise moment Arthur caught the lever and jerked it down. Finch fell against the post, slumping with relief as he heard the rhythmic bang of the trapdoor against the bottom of the platform. Swiping his damp palm across his mouth, he peered over his shoulder, eager to savor the destruction of his enemies.

But instead of two bodies twisting in the wind, he saw two men grinning in perfect accord. He whipped a dagger out of his coat, but it went clattering to the boards as Tristan’s booted foot caught him soundly in the rump. He went sailing off the scaffold, arms flailing at empty air.

Cop snatched up the fallen dagger and sawed through their bonds. Tristan crouched on the edge of the platform. Arthur was sprawled below, his face buried in a mound of leaves.

“Give me the dagger,” Tristan said, reaching behind him.

Cop hesitated for a heartbeat, then slapped the hilt in his open palm. Tristan prepared to spring off the scaffold.

Copperfield tapped him on the shoulder. “If I’m not mistaken, your wife seems to be in need of some assistance.”

Tristan jerked around, following the path of Copperfield’s pointing finger to the ever-widening loops of fire unfurling on the horizon. He squinted, barely able to make out the tiny figure draped over the broomstick, arms and legs flopping with each flip of the broom. Centrifugal force had to be the only thing keeping her
aboard. He glanced back at Arthur. Arian’s shrieks floated to him on the wind.

Shaking his head in bemusement, he tossed the dagger to Copperfield, then jumped up and down, waving his arms in the air. “Over here, Arian! Aim the stick this way!”

The broom made a wobbly dart for the sky, then swung around and shot toward the scaffold.

Tristan pulled off the heavy coat and shimmied up a support to the top of the crossbeam.

Cop’s mouth fell open. “Surely you don’t plan to—”

“If Finch moves,” he commanded grimly, “kill him.”

The wind tore at Tristan’s shirt and stung his eyes as he squatted atop the crossbeam. The broom shot straight toward him, growing in size and speed with each passing second. Arian’s mouth worked in helpless dismay, warning him to get out of the way. Her terrified eyes loomed in his vision; the flapping of her cloak nearly deafened him.

Tristan stood, balancing on the balls of his feet, and stretched his arms straight in the air. The broomstick dove for his chest Arian screamed. As she jerked up on the end of the stick with all her might, the torch tumbled from her hand to land in the brush below the scaffold.

She passed between Tristan’s outstretched arms like the breath of a dream. He snatched at the stick just above the bristles and held on, gritting his teeth as every muscle in his arms howled a protest. The broom shuddered, then went soaring upward into the moonless sky. Copperfield’s whoop of triumph spurred Tristan up and astride the broom.

Arian’s pert derriere was draped over the broomstick in front of him.

“Tristan!” she shrieked.

“Well, I have to hold on to something, don’t I?”

She twisted around to glare at him. “Would you
consider pulling me aboard? This view is growing quite tiresome.”

“On the contrary.” Tristan ran his hand lightly up the creamy expanse of thigh exposed by her billowing skirt.

She squealed in outrage and he pulled her up, wrapping his arms around her waist. The miracle of flying was nothing compared to the wonder of holding her in his arms when he thought he never would again. He gave her a gentle squeeze, assuring himself that she was real, that he hadn’t conjured her from his lonely dreams. She turned her head and his lips captured the corner of her mouth in a lingering touch of flame. A slow fire ignited in his belly, born of too many nights without her.

Tristan opened his eyes and for one deliciously lazy moment thought the reddish glow below merely a pale reflection of his blazing hunger for the woman in his arms. A closer look revealed a scaffold licked with flames and a figure in rented buckskins hopping up and down and shaking his fist at the sky.

“Uh-oh,” he said. “If we don’t pick up Cop soon, I’m afraid he’s going to get a little hot under the collar.” He folded his hands over Arian’s, guiding the broomstick downward.

As they descended, the leaves around the scaffold burst into flame, engulfing the structure in a crackling inferno. Copperfield scrambled up a support to escape the flying sparks. Flames shot into the night sky, forcing Tristan and Arian to squeeze their eyes shut against the merciless heat. At the very last second, Arian jerked up the end of the broomstick, her nails digging convulsively into the wood.

“We missed him,” she wailed. “I didn’t dare go in blind.”

“The way you maneuver this thing, blindness would be a virtue.” At that dry comment, they both swiveled around to discover Copperfield hanging on the back of the broomstick, his knuckles white with effort. His
feet were slapping the tops of the trees. “Couldn’t you have stolen something a bit more roomy? A flying carpet? Or maybe a minivan?”

Tristan grabbed the leg of his buckskins and hauled him aboard.

“I did the best I could on such short notice,” Arian retorted. “After your brilliant boss here so nobly offered to die for me, I barely had time to sprint back to the cottage and fetch Warlock. We were doing just fine until we picked up all this extra weight,” she added spitefully.

As if to prove her point, the broom dipped in a dangerous arc, circling the clearing. Tristan’s eyes watered as he struggled to see through the shimmering heat.

Cop rested a hand on his shoulder. “I’m afraid I failed you. True to character, Arthur slithered away into the woods when the fire started.”

Tristan felt Arian stiffen against his chest. His hands were resting on her rib cage and he could feel each thud of her heart as if it were his own.

“I had very little time with my stepfather,” she said softly, “but once I convinced him that the good Reverend was my father, he was only too willing to believe that he was also a fraud who had been seducing the innocent girls of the village. Marcus is on his way to Boston this very minute to fetch the magistrates. But if you want to go back for Arthur, we will.”

Tristan understood the question underlying her words far better than she did. Her heart fluttered in the cradle of his hands—fragile and more infinitely precious than any dream of revenge. Arthur would never have Warlock again. He would be forced to survive in this primitive society using only his wits. If they didn’t hang him for all the harm he’d already done.

Tristan watched as the scaffold folded inward, collapsing in a cascade of flames. A sense of peace enveloped him. “Your father made his own private hell in this century. Let him burn in it.” He rested his chin on Arian’s
shoulder. “By any chance, Mrs. Lennox, do you remember the spell that first carried you into my arms?”

She rested her dark head against his fair one. “Why, of course I do!” Dismay colored her voice. “But Arthur claimed that he had programmed Warlock to deliver him to your doorstep and my ridiculous little spell had nothing to do with—”

“Concentrate!” Tristan barked, folding the fingers of her right hand around the amulet. “How do you expect to win a million dollars and establish yourself as any sort of respectable witch if you’re distracted by every skeptic who pokes fun at you? Don’t you have any more faith in yourself than that? You’ll end up scrubbing toilets in Grand Central Station for a living if you can’t show me any better magic than this. Watch it! Our feet are dragging. That’s it now. Pull up and squeeze the amulet. And don’t think wiggling your adorable little rump and batting those eyelashes is going to get you anywhere with me. You’ll be a bony old hag one of these days and forced to rely on your talents to keep me enchanted. Watch out for that bush! And don’t—”

“Time halts but keeps on flowing!” Arian shrieked, desperate to drown out the nagging rumble of Tristan’s voice. “The winds cease but keep on blowing. Love hates but keeps on growing.”

The broom dipped, then made an erratic dart for the tops of the trees. Copperfield threw his arms around Tristan’s waist.

“Why, Cop,” Tristan shouted. “I never knew you cared.”

Arian chanted,

The broom gathered speed. A ribbon of road unfurled beneath them. The night wind roared in their ears.

“What abominable poetry,” Cop muttered into Tristan’s shirt. “Root doesn’t rhyme with soot.”

They shot toward the far horizon. But Arian’s squeal of triumph deepened to a cry of dismay when the broom did a sudden nosedive, sending them hurtling straight for the yawning chasm of a deserted lake.

There was no time for panic. No time for regrets. Tristan simply closed his eyes and buried his face in Arian’s hair, wanting his last breath to be drawn from her scent. As they crashed through the surface of the lake, the water exploded into flying fragments of darkness and they went soaring upward through a veil torn asunder into a sun so brilliant it blinded them all.