Moon Dancer (Beneath the Thirteen Moons) Read online

  And Tarov heard the small yelp of pain when the bones nicked Henel. She grimaced. Hadn’t Henel learned anything? The pain was a part of the dance; the tiny scars decorating a dancer’s body tokens of the art. The zabbaroot dulled the worst of it; that magic root that allowed the dancer to See the patterns, made the pain blend into the bliss of the dance. One did not acknowledge every nick and cut.

  Somehow the patterns finally caught Henel, no longer her moving them so much as they moved her. The music created through the holes of the bones caused the watchers to moan in bliss at a song no other instrument could make. A melody of their Sea Forest world, the harmony of its parasitic denizens and the tune of their lives, all reflected by the song of the leviathan. The dancer undulated, feeling the crowd demanding more, responding with near erotic moves that gave them what they craved.

  Sweat beaded Tarov’s brow. Those were her bones, they couldn’t sing without calling to her. Without making her hands itch to wield them. Tearing her soul into pieces when she couldn’t...wouldn’t...respond.

  Tarov resumed her struggles with a frenzy, her wrists and ankles turning the ropes bloody.

  The dancer stumbled. The crowd froze in surprise. She suddenly seemed to be fighting her own bones, spinning them in one direction only to have them flip in another. Tarov had never seen anything like it. The battle continued for moments that stretched into eternity, the music from the bones twisting into wails of piercing shrieks, until those watching clapped hands over ears, mouths agape with horror.

  Tarov screamed.

  Dolph ran onstage, but couldn’t get past the deadly sweep of the instruments. His face reflected his terror, fear and confusion.

  Suddenly the dancer froze to stillness. The Sea Forest grew silent, even the constant flow and crash of the waves seemed to mute. And the ‘ka fell to the stage with a hollow ring.

  Tarov kept screaming.

  Blue pearls peppered the stage, bounced then rolled to the edge of the crowd. No eager hands reached forth to claim the valuable gems. Diamond flecks of sharkskin flickered; shredded pieces joined the ribbons of slashed veils that floated down to form a circle of refuse around the dancer’s feet.

  And then pieces of flesh, sliced so quickly, severed so cleanly, began to fall.

  Tarov could not stop screaming.

  Dolph’s head swiveled in her direction, a profound look of relief on his face. And then he ran to her.

  * * *

  Dolph agreed to delay their lifemate ceremony so Tarov could grieve, but he urged her to dance at the royal wedding. The crown prince would marry, and such an event occurred only once in a lifetime. He refused to allow her to give up the opportunity, and in truth, Tarov didn’t know how she felt about Henel’s death. It felt horrible and tragic, yes, but Tarov also felt as if she had been freed of a great weight. And it made her feel somehow guilty. Somehow responsible for Henel’s careless actions. Tarov had wanted the other woman to leave her alone, but not in this way. Would this be Henel’s final betrayal? A memory that would haunt Tarov forever?

  So now Tarov stood center stage in the huge cavern-hall of the Palace Tree, feeling unsure, and almost drunk with the magic of the zabbaroot. She had been allowed so much root the carved reliefs on the walls stood out in stark detail to her heightened senses, the mosaic pattern of seashells paving the floor screamed at her to follow their secret path.

  An audience of royals surrounded her, their perfumes drifting in wafts of colored vapor she could actually See. Red and lavender robes swished among dresses tinkling with decorations of pearls, scales, and shells, until Tarov thought she’d go mad with pleasure from the music it made.

  She started to swing her ‘ka in imitation of that song and gasped at the words she faintly heard in the melody. Actual words! Had they always been there, and she too deaf to hear because she lacked a sufficient amount of zabbaroot? Her brown eyes closed briefly in ecstasy. Even if she died from an overdose of the root she’d taken in her desire to perform the best dance of her life, it would be worth it to hear the bones of the sea monster finally speak.

  Quickly she plunged into the Patterns of Octopus, Crab, and Anemone, her body lithely supple after years of practice.

  Simple, meaningless tunes, said the bones. Only the dance of the leviathan will share with you the secrets you need revealed. Look, See the pattern!

  And she Saw. And danced. Then gritted her teeth in agonized fury. For Tarov no longer moved to her own dance, nor that of the sea monster. The song shrieking through the bones belonged to another. And to her horror, she recognized the spirit within the tune.

  Henel, she thought wildly. She performed Henel’s final dance, the one the girl hadn’t been capable of herself--for in life she could only mimic Tarov.

  It was indecent, this exposing of another’s true self, and she desperately tried to stop, to deafen her ears to the melody. To fight against the secrets of Henel. In vain, for the power of the root and the strength still in the leviathan bones could not be overcome, so Tarov was forced to give up herself to the dance, twisting and swaying with the blades of her ‘ka.

  The secret of Henel’s Pattern lay revealed to her, and Tarov Jin’nidea danced it all, and understood.

  Dolph had been right. Henel had been jealous of Tarov, yet there was so much more. Henel lacked the confidence to choose her own path, to risk failure. To Henel, she lifted her own image by criticizing Tarov. Henel couldn’t fail if she took Tarov’s path instead of her own.

  The bones sang of Henel’s lack of courage, her fear of taking the leaps of faith needed to live her own life to its fullest. They also whispered of her innate sense of entitlement, learned from parents who’d been too indulgent.

  And deep within her, an admiration for Tarov that Tarov herself never would’ve realized. Henel felt an odd sort of kinship with Tarov. A connection--or compulsion--she held no control over. Although she loved those who loved her, Henel felt no empathy for others. She was selfish, and yet strong, and smart, and capable…

  When the bones finally released Tarov she dropped to her knees and flung her ‘ka across the mosaic floor. Applause thundered in the hall. She felt warm blood flow from myriad nicks, but knew her body had survived the True Dance of Henel Madera.

  And Tarov felt lost within memories not her own. It felt somehow obscene, to know another’s secrets so intimately.

  Then she saw Dolph’s hand, reached up and allowed him to help her to her feet. The applause grew even louder when he kissed her, his eyes shining with triumph. “You are now a master of the dance.”

  Tarov nodded, realizing Henel had given her one last gift, whether she intended it or not.

  “I just wish…the bones spoke to me, Dolph. You were right. Henel had it in her to be a great dancer.”

  “I Saw,” he replied. “I Heard. And you gave Henel her dance, my love. Which is, perhaps, more than she could ever have given herself. Because of you, she will be remembered.” He tugged her hand. “Now, turn and bow to your admirers, for all of your dreams have come true. And remember, only you are responsible for your own happiness.”

  THE DISENCHANTED LOVER

  ~The Relics of Merlin, Book 4.5~

  Prologue

  Long ago a great wizard was born with magic in his very blood. He lived for thousands of years and went by many names, but the one we know best is Merlin.

  Merlin passed his magic down through his offspring, and the power made his children rulers. Some inherited more magic than others, and eventually titles reflected their gifts. In Britain, kings and queens held the strongest power. After the royals, dukes had the greatest magical abilities in that they could change matter. Marquesses could cast spells and illusions and transfer objects but not change them. Earls mastered illusions, while viscounts dabbled in charms and potions. Barons had a magical gift, which could be as simple as making flowers grow or as complicated as seeing into the future.

  And then there were the baronets. Part man, part animal, the shape-shifters were
Merlin’s greatest enchantment… and eventually his greatest bane. For out of all mankind, they were immune to his magic.

  Merlin created thirteen magical relics from the gems of the earth, a focus for some of his greatest spells. After Merlin’s disappearance, his children tried to find the relics, since these items held the only magic stronger than their own. The relics proved to be elusive until his children discovered that the shape-shifters they so despised could sniff out the power of a relic.

  Over the centuries the relics faded to legend. But the most powerful of Merlin’s descendants did not forget, and shape-shifters became the secret spies of many rulers.

  London 1842

  Where magic has never died…

  Lady Rose Cheevers gathered her courage and instructed the coachman to drive toward the East End of London, a part of the city she would never dare venture to if not for the problem she had managed to create with her last spell.

  She leaned toward the open window of her carriage when they reached Trickside and studied the ramshackle shops they passed. Behind the rather grimy windows sat charms and potions next to signs boasting their supposed enchantments.

  Rose raised a brow at some of the outlandish advertisements. Mostly the aristocracy had real magical powers, although occasionally a true gift for magic popped up in the lower classes--through an illicit love affair or because some foolish nobleman gave up their birthright.

  Rose prayed those rumors might be true.

  She signaled the coachman to stop in front of a shop that appeared to be less decrepit than the others. The windows shone clean in the weak London sunshine, and lacked the garish advertisements promising to cure all and sundry. An open book had been painted on the glass, with a neatly scripted sign upon it that simply read: Assistance with Most Magical Dilemmas.

  More importantly, Rose could sense true magic within. She gathered up her skirts and stepped out of the carriage, wincing when her lambskin boots sank into a soggy puddle of--

  Rose quickly raised her head before she could identify the muck and marched to the shop, ignoring the stares of two impudent men lounging on the street.

  A bell tinkled over the door as she entered and a tiny woman emerged from the back room, a curl of a smile at the corners of her mouth as she spoke. “May I be of assistance, m’lady?”

  Rose blinked at the diminutive shopkeeper. Despite her frowsy hair and paste jewelry and outdated dress, she had a dignity about her that smacked of gentry.

  “I hope so,” Rose replied, eyeing the small shop. Shelves covered the walls, laden with books any nobleman’s library would be proud to own. Here and there, oddities had been tucked into small open spaces: glass bottles of colored liquid, metal boxes engraved with cryptic runes, and dried herbs in ribbon-wrapped bundles. Rose breathed in the smell of old leather and lavender, releasing the inhalation with her next words. “That is…if you truly possess the magic that your sign advertises.”

  The shopkeeper lifted her chin. “I am no charlatan, if that’s what you mean, but I cannot make any guarantees. My particular gift can be…unpredictable. Yet I am curious as to why you would come to my shop, when my own talent for magic pales in comparison to yours. You are a marchioness, if I do not miss my guess.”

  “We all have our limitations, regardless of rank,” Rose admitted in a low voice. This small woman exuded intelligence and a strange charisma that somehow made her feel as if she had found a kindred spirit. The sudden urge to confide in someone nearly overwhelmed her. Even if this woman’s gift was not powerful enough to help her, just the thought of sharing her burden might allow her to come up with some sort of plan. For days she had been living with such fear and grief--

  “I cast an illegal spell,” Rose let out in a rush. “And now I cannot undo it and I cannot ask anyone I know to help me because they would surely put me in Newgate but I cannot live with the man any longer…” Rose’s voice faded to a whisper and to her horror she began to cry.

  “There, now,” said the shopkeeper, patting her on the back and guiding her to a chair. “You do not have to worry about anyone on this side of the Thames reporting you to the Hall of Mages.” The smaller woman handed Rose a handkerchief. “Wipe your tears and tell me all about it, and I shall see if I can help.”

  Rose had already fought back her tears, so she just dabbed at her face and crushed the small square of cotton into her sweaty, gloved fist as she collapsed into the cushioned comfort of a much-used Queen Anne chair.

  Blast her hoops for popping up and displaying too much ankle! She grimaced at the irrational surge of anger. She was not normally a woman prone to outbursts of excess emotion, but she had found out so many disturbing things in the last few days that she felt pushed to her limits. The man she trusted the most had betrayed her. How could she ever trust anyone else again? Much less a shopkeeper from Trickside?

  The little woman had been studying her face, and spoke as if she read Rose’s very thoughts. “My name is Manda. I ran away from my father, Baron Minotaura, and if he finds out where I am he shall drag me back and marry me off to a likewise bull-faced, cantankerous old man. Does that help?”

  Rose uncurled her gloved fingers and then gave a savage twist to the now equally damp handkerchief. This stranger offered a trust for a trust. Had she somehow managed to do the right thing by coming to Trickside? She gulped a breath and blurted her sin. “I transferred a demon to this plane.”

  Manda gasped and covered it with a cough.

  “But I did not know he was a devil,” she hastily continued. “He…he was my husband, you see. And I never got the chance to say goodbye, so I just wanted a few minutes more with him. But I thought George had gone to heaven…that I was summoning an angel. So I did not prepare a binding to prevent him from staying in our world, for who would wish to leave heaven? But then…then he appeared with horns and a tail and the next thing I knew I woke with a bump on my head, tucked up in my own bedstead. When next I saw George, he had hid the horns and tail and--the rest--with an illusion spell, and crafted a belt of spirit-grass that would prevent my reversal spell from sending him back.”

  Rose caught her breath, for those blasted tears threatened again. “We never really know anyone, do we? During our entire two years of marriage I had always thought him an honorable man, destined for the pearly gates. I missed him so much I was willing to break the very laws of magic to have him back. And then I discover….” She suppressed a shudder. “Well, he did some dreadful things to become a demon.”

  Manda patted her hand. “Do not go blaming yourself. You are not the first woman to be fooled by a man. And not all men are deceivers.”

  Rose lifted her brow skeptically. She did not think she could ever trust her own judgment of men again.

  “So.” Manda turned toward a shelf at the back of the room, bypassing the gilt-edged and shiny spines of the expensive books, and instead removed a ragged looking tome. She set it on the table, pushing aside several dirty teacups. “I suppose you want to know how to get rid of your demon-husband?”

  Rose winced, but nodded her head.

  The small woman murmured to the book and then opened it. Rose leaned forward and frowned, for all of the pages appeared blank. But Manda’s eyes moved back and forth, as if reading something written there.

  “What does it say?” whispered Rose.

  Manda slammed it shut. “Well, at least this time it managed to answer my question, although why it thinks that rascal can help you is beyond me!”

  “What do you mean?”

  Manda turned and placed the book back on the shelf, then adjusted her black shawl around her shoulders. “It says that you cannot get rid of the demon by yourself. That you shall need the help of Mister Drake Pann.”

  Rose closed her eyes and groaned. The last thing she needed was to get involved with another man. “Who is Drake Pann?”

  “He’s a thief and a rake, and clever and handsome enough to get away with both. And even if you offered him all the money you had, he
would not bother to help you. He despises the aristocracy.”

  Rose placed the mangled handkerchief on the table, smoothing it out a bit, then stood and adjusted her skirts. At least now she had some hope, some plan of action. She would figure out some way to get this man to help her, despite his lack of character and bias. She leaned down and hugged the smaller woman, a pleasant whiff of cats and camphor tickling her nose. “Thank you, Manda. Where can I find this thief?”

  Manda returned the hug, her face a mixture of surprise and pleasure. “I shall give you his place of residence, but be careful. He lives near shape-shifters and they are an unpredictable lot, what with their immunity to magic and all.” She hastily scribbled a note with Mr. D. Pann and his establishment on a scrap of parchment.

  Rose replaced the paper with several gold sovereigns, uncaring of the actual fee. Manda’s eyes widened at the glitter and clink of the coins, and her smile stretched. Rose just caught the shopkeeper’s last words as she hurried back out the door.

  “At least Pann is one man you do not have to worry about deceiving you, m’lady. He is unnecessarily proud of what he is. An honest thief, if you can imagine.”

  * * *

  Rose twisted a curl of mahogany hair with her finger while the carriage slogged its way through a street of dilapidated brownstones. She could only think of one way to get this Mister Pann to help her, but she had been raised to respect the rights of others. Placing a spell on someone without his or her knowledge was just not done.

  “And neither is transferring a spirit back from the dead,” she murmured as the coach stopped in front of the residence that Manda had given her. The driver clambered down from his perch and up the stairs of the tall brownstone, using a rusty knocker to pound on the splintered door. A servant opened it, a conversation ensued, and Rose held her breath.