The COMPLETE Witching Pen Series, Boxed Set (36 page)

“Where were you when Elizabeth bled
right here
in this same spot?”

Silence.

He sighed, wearily. “I am old, Morgana, and weak. If it is my life you seek, I do not have any left in me.”

She nodded. “You are certainly old, although you’ve never been weak. But you are right, I cannot keep you from death, and your time will be over soon.”

“Then why—”

“Because there is still one final act to play, and you have a leading role.”

Anger he thought had left him, surged into his chest. “I am not your puppet!”

Genuine sadness settled on her features. “We are all puppets to one master or another – at least for the moment. Things are changing:
By her hand, the Earth will rumble and shatter, and all dimensions will bleed into one.
”

“A prophecy?”

“
The
prophecy – the one we have all been waiting for.”

“An apocalypse?”

She nodded again. “The destruction of what is, to make room for what will be … and every new era needs a new leader. One that will bring order to chaos; one that sees possibility amid the carnage.”

“I don’t understand—”

“No understanding is required. For now, I just need you to agree to play your final part.”

“Why on earth would I do that, when I have no idea what I’m agreeing to?”

“Because you hold
her
life in your hands – right now – with the decision you make. Say no, and she will die.”

His heart almost stopped beating right then – he didn’t need to be told she was referring to Amy.

“You would kill her?”

“Not I. I want her to live. This is the only way.”

He hesitated. This could be a trick. The fay were known for their trickery.

“This is no trick,” she said, reading his mind. “You will play your part because she will die if you do not, and because … I can finally let you know why your wife killed herself.”

Tears that he thought had dried up with age, spilled over his cheeks. In all the years gone by, that was the final uncertainty – the one thing he had never been able to fathom. He thought he had managed to lay the burning pain of ‘not knowing’ to rest, but the wet tracks staining his face proved otherwise. “Why did she?” he choked out.

Morgana merely shook her head, and held out her hand. “Your vow first, that whatever happens, whatever it takes, you will do what you must to save her life.”

Was that all? That wasn’t really a trial, was it? He already had done everything he could to save her life – right here – too many decades ago, but…

He couldn’t bear the thought of causing her more pain. “I promised her she’d never see me again.”

The fairy queen cocked her head in confusion. “What an odd thing to say to your soul-bonded.”

Soul-bonded?
His stunned face must have looked a picture.

She sighed softly, as if having to explain something to a child. “Did that never once occur to you in all your years? Did you really think that a time loop – which is never created lightly – could even exist with anything less than such a connection?”

No. God, no, it had never once occurred to him. He had known nothing of magic or metaphysical theories then, and when he had begun to study it all, soul-bonding was not an area of learning he had paid much mind to.

He opened his mouth to ask another question, but she tightened her lips, tilted her jaw up in defiance, and gestured to her hand with her eyes. He wasn’t going to get anything more out of her without giving her what she wanted.

He ached in his bones. The mere thought of going on filled him with exhaustion. “I’m not young anymore.”

“Worry not about that. I cannot increase the time that you have left, but mortal bodies are easy to fix. However, my patience is waning, Paul May.” She extended her open hand further in his direction. “Do I have your vow?”

Elizabeth’s form – Amy’s form – pale and dead, under this tree, invaded his mind. Not again – no, not again. She was still young. He could ensure she would carry on living a full, rich life.

With the final morsel of strength he had saved for his death, he let out a little cry of defeat – or maybe it was relief – and dropped his hand into hers as he uttered, “Yes.”

Chapter Three

Mary was pretty sure she knew what bonding entailed; she didn't want to even think about what 'merging' might involve. But the one thing of which she was absolutely certain, was that there wasn't a chance in hell (and she was fully aware of
that
irony) that she was going to drink Satan's blood without putting up the fight of her life.

She kicked out with her feet to no avail. When he pressed his body into hers to still her, she tried to bring her knee up to his groin, but he had his own knees locked against her thighs, and it was impossible to bend her legs. When she spat in his face, he simply ignored her, and when he put down his dagger and fisted his right hand in her hair to pull her head back, desperation got the better of her.

“Is this how you get all women to do what you want? You have to force them?”

“Oh, usually they're willing, believe me, but you, angel of mine, have always needed special persuasion.”

“And you wonder why I ran off,” she retorted, knowing she shouldn't anger him further, but she was all out of options.

He yanked her head back hard, and she clamped her mouth shut.

He brought his wrist up towards her face, and the scent of his blood almost drew a moan out of her, it smelled so good … which was just wrong.

“Open wide for me,” he whispered.

Oh, God, this is it.
She pressed her lips together as hard as she could and shut her eyes, not willing to bear witness to her own violation.

She heard his breath hitch in his throat, some kind of disbelieving sound, then she wondered if the ground was shaking, because a deafening roar filled the air, seeming to make everything vibrate. He let go of her hair, something breezed past her and he was now off her completely … and it sounded like the world was ending. Fear had her motionless – she had to will her eyes open.

What she saw both relieved and terrified her simultaneously: Satan and Gwain –
Gwain was here
– both shirtless and furious, were throwing down like sworn enemies. She was momentarily stunned at the scene. It was like watching two dark and deadly superheroes have it out, if superheroes had wings; speaking of which, what in heaven's name had happened to Gwain's wings? They didn't look quite right, but the two angels were moving too fast for her to focus properly. Every time one of them was thrown to the ground, or to the wall, the earth trembled under the assault.

Holy shit, if one of them came flying her way, she'd be squashed flat. She had to get out of these cuffs
now.
With a grimace, she pulled at them again, and winced as the pain in her elbows exploded – it was almost unbearable, and she still couldn't feel anything above them.

Her heart leapt up to her throat when she caught sight of Gwain hurtling backwards through the air towards her. Instinctively, she yelped, turned her head, and shut her eyes once more, bracing herself for the inevitable impact … which never came, although the wall behind her did shake and bits of stone and dust fell on her head.

When she next looked up, Gwain's face was just an inch away from hers. He stared at her, grey eyes flashing, with one hand either side of her head. He'd somehow righted himself just in time.

“Hello,” she managed.

“Hello,” he replied, then grabbed the chains holding her cuffs to the wall, and ripped them out of the stone, just before Satan attacked him from her right.

“You don't touch her!”
he bellowed, and they both went down again in a mass of muscle and limbs.

“Too late,” goaded Gwain, and Mary blinked in disbelief. Was he really bantering whilst sparring?

Then she groaned as cold fire shot down her arms – now hanging loose by her sides – all the way to her fingertips.
Oh, shit, that hurts! Pins and needles of the worst kind!
 

She crouched and hugged her arms to her chest, massaging them and trying her best to ignore the pain – it's not like she was a stranger to pain. Unfortunately, thanks to her crazy nightmares and her coping mechanisms for the torture they instilled, her stupid, good-for-nothing, masochistic body didn't know the difference between pain and pleasure anymore; in fact, her body enjoyed pain more than she’d like to admit. As a result, she was feeling uncomfortably aroused from the abuse she’d taken since waking up here. Emotionally, she was far from having fuzzy feelings … but her physical form had always had an agenda of its own.

Looks like you have the bloodthirsty angel gene too, you fucked up girl – or botched up daughter of Satan, if what he's saying is true. Which would explain a lot, by the way.

Now that she was free of her restraints, and the psycho-God was occupied, she started to piece together everything that he'd told her. If it was true, then he had created her in his own image – from the nucleus of chaos. Her mind conjured up a visual of the necklace that she'd been found with as a baby: two Chinese symbols strung together, which read ‘primeval chaos’.

Christ, maybe it
is
all true. If Elena can be the daughter of a Shanka demon, is this really such a stretch?
 

She spied Gwain's shirt lying on the floor a couple of feet away and reached for it, willing her fingers to work. They did still work, thank God, and she grasped it with some difficulty, then opened it up to examine it. The back was mostly torn off, but there were still a couple of buttons attached to the front. It would do. She clumsily slipped it on and did the two buttons up. She had no idea where her underwear and jeans were, but at least the shirt hung down to the middle of her thighs.

Ignoring the sounds of battle bouncing off the walls, she concentrated on her surroundings and looked for an escape route. She had no idea how she'd gotten in; she didn't even know where Gwain had come from. Out of the corner of her eye, she spied an orange glow coming from around one of the bends in the stony chamber they were in. It looked like her only option, but she didn't know how she was going to get there with the two angels dominating the space between her and it. She wondered if she should try to help Gwain instead, but they moved so fast, and were so unearthly strong, she was sure she'd be more of a hindrance than an aid. She also valued her life – now so more than ever – and didn't fancy getting accidentally squished between the two.

Cautiously, she skirted along the wall towards the orange light, wondering what on earth she was going to do if that
was
the way out. She wouldn't go without Gwain, but she couldn't see how she could join in the fight – these two were formidable; nothing like fighting Shanka demons at all.

A startling cry, followed by a grunt, pulled her out of her thoughts and she froze at the sight of Gwain's head going
through
the stone wall!

Oh, God!

He was just about moving, but clearly dazed.

Satan spun on his heel and fixed his eyes on her.

Run!

Her feet had covered only a few metres before he was on her. His arm encircled her throat, and she screamed as he pulled her down backwards on top of him. She rammed an elbow into his ribs, and she may as well have rammed it into a steel door – what were angels
made
of?

He hooked his ankles over hers to immobilise her, and grasped her face with his hand. “You fucked the last angel? I should have known it was him … of
course
it was
him!
”

Was he talking about Gwain? Whatever. It's not like she remembered, and really, she'd just had enough. Even though it was pointless, she forced her head forward as far as she could, then slammed it back as hard as she could.

She yelled out as her head exploded in agony, but took some satisfaction in hearing something crunch behind her, amazed that she'd made any impact at all.

“Bitch!”
he cursed, then brought his bleeding wrist to her face. It looked like he’d made a fresh cut – when had he done that?

“No!” She caught his arm with both her hands. Of course she was completely outweighed in strength, but it didn't matter, because if she was going to lose, then she had
nothing
to lose. So she locked her elbows, and put every ounce of energy she could into keeping her arms straight and his wrist away from her mouth.

He still had her head pinned in place with his other hand, and she realised, with disconcertion, there was nothing she could do about the drop of blood about to fall from his wrist, straight onto her lips.

He forced her head back and squeezed her face so damn hard, she had no choice but to unlock her jaw so it didn't snap in half.

A cry of defeat left her as the drop of blood fell from his wrist … just as a hand clamped down over her gaping mouth, and a body landed on top of her. The blood hit the back of Gwain's left hand, as his right fist landed a punch to the side of Satan's face.

Mary quickly let go of his arm, and moved her own out of the way to give Gwain better access, trying to ignore the fact that she was completely trapped and unable to speak. Sandwiched between them, with the two men landing punches either side of her head, there wasn't a lot she could do but keep as still as possible – so much for not getting squished.

A golden glint caught her eye: Gwain was wearing her necklace. For some reason that touched her deeply, and something strange stirred within her, but her focus was drawn elsewhere: with Gwain looming over her, she finally noticed his wings. They were burnt – badly. And they were bloody, the feathers mostly gone, and sticky looking skin, blackened and charred, clung in clumps to what remained. It was a tragic sight.

Satan's words came back to her:
“It's why our wings look different – shinier, waxier – they're inflammable.”
 

Gwain's weren't, and he must have known it when he'd come down here after her.