The Merqueen (The Witching World Book 3)
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
The Merqueen
Lucía Ashta
Awaken to Peace Press
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
The Ginger Cat
The Ginger Cat Preview
A Note to Readers
About the Author
Titles by Lucía Ashta
Copyright 2017 Lucía Ashta
All rights reserved
This is a work of fiction.
Cover design by Lou Harper of Harper by Design
Awaken to Peace Press
Sedona, Arizona
www.awakentopeace.com
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For Nadia,
whose imagination gives life to magic
Magic bubbles beneath the surface,
just beyond sight.
Chapter 1
“Close the door before he gets out!” Mordecai shouted.
I didn’t know who he was, but I spun to shut the door as quickly as I could.
I whirled back around to seek out Mordecai, but instead found the satyr, the one I’d been outside avoiding.
The satyr’s hooves slipped on the wood and the brass handle as he tried to open the door.
When his attention turned to me, he abandoned his attempt at escape. “Hello there, deary.”
His voice disturbed me more than the face behind it. I flattened myself against the door, and he pinned me to it. He lifted his arm above his head and leaned in. It was a disturbing act of seduction.
“Ugh.” The stench pressed me even farther against the door. Carvings and knobs bit into my back. “You smell awful.”
The satyr threw his head back and laughed, assaulting my nostrils with putrid breath. I caught a flash of yellow, pointed teeth before he snapped his jaw shut.
“It’s the scent of desire. And you can’t resist it. No woman can.” His words hissed through barely parted lips.
If this was desire, then I hoped never to desire another thing in my life. I flicked frantic eyes around his furry head, searching for Marcelo or Mordecai, anyone who could help me—even the butler Robert would have been great just then.
But Mordecai was at the end of the entry hall, consoling the maiden the satyr had tormented for centuries while they were trapped within their tapestry. The maiden, folded in on herself in her trauma and grief, sat in a chair, sobbing. Mordecai hovered over her, apparently looking for a way to comfort the girl and finding none.
The maiden held her face in her hands. Soft blond hair fell forward, shielding her from the satyr’s red eyes, the ones that had considered her their prey for an eternity in thread. Her shoulders trembled even beneath the cloak Mordecai had given her to conceal her nudity.
As with much in Irele Castle, the art wasn’t as it seemed. When I’d first arrived, I’d assumed the tapestries and paintings here behaved as normal art did, which is to say, they didn’t behave or misbehave at all.
But as was the way with the castle, its art turned out to be just as dangerous and volatile as the rest of it. The tapestries and paintings were as much prisons as they were art. Their subjects were alive, and could step out from the art under certain circumstances. The “certain circumstances” were hazy to me. No one had bothered to explain how it was that seemingly all the creatures in the art in this castle—and tapestries and paintings lined its every wall—had escaped it.
The maiden was wailing with enough lament to convince me that the satyr had been able to torment her all the while she was a captive of the tapestry. And I’d witnessed Sir Lancelot fly from his painting, the one in the dining room, when Marcelo uttered the spell to release him from it.
Of all the creatures that walked, flew, cried, and otherwise contributed to the bedlam that currently overwhelmed the interior of Irele Castle, Sir Lancelot was the only one I didn’t want returned to the art. I didn’t want the maiden restored to a threaded prison with the satyr, but surely there were other solutions, ones that removed her from his smelly, hideous, red-eyed torment and still restored her to where she belonged.
If we didn’t find a way to contain the pandemonium soon, the sanity of all the magicians here, a group of which I now considered myself part, was at peril. There was only so much magic I could do before succumbing to the inevitable conclusion that I was a witch. My family was better off believing me dead. Irele Castle was my home now; I had no other place to go.
I looked around, beyond the head of the demonic satyr. My eyes watered at the foulness of his breath. How long had he been trapped in that tapestry? And who’d trapped him in it? Probably one of Mordecai’s ancestors. I wished someone had bothered to leave the satyr some kind of tooth powder or rinse.
The satyr leaned farther into me and breathed hotly against my neck. With near desperation, I struggled to look around his giant head.
Where was Marcelo? He didn’t usually forget about me. He’d almost lost me to the castle’s tricks when I fell captive to the merworld, then he almost lost me to the nephew he’d believed dead. My safety was one of his constant preoccupations. But even he was nowhere among the shadows that danced across the cold stone walls, illuminated only by the low flames of enchanted candles.
“Mor—” I didn’t manage to call out for Mordecai before the satyr pressed against me hard, pushing against my lungs, making breathing difficult.
Fur rubbed the insides of my arms. I swung alarmed eyes back toward the beast that seemed ready to swallow me up. No help was forthcoming. My stomach clenched against the satyr’s ugliness.
A low growl of a laugh rose from deep within that well of depravity. It bounced off the walls of the satyr’s body before oozing out, trying to envelope me, thinking nothing could stand in its way. I was just another maiden that would relent and become his prey.
A horn scraped my forehead. Fur trailed against my cheek.
The satyr extended a long, rough tongue and licked my earlobe.
It was a violation greater than I was willing to stand. I didn’t care that I couldn’t control what happened when I called on the elements to do magic. I didn’t care that I could hurt the beast or cause damage to the castle. I didn’t care that Mordecai was too preoccupied with the death of his brother to pay attention like he usually did.
I didn’t care about anything at all.
All I could think about was the wet film that coated my ear, adhering the satyr’s stench to me. Would it even wash off? Ever?
Footsteps ran toward me, but I didn’t care whose they were. I didn’t look around the demon’s face to search them out. I stared for the first time into unblinking red eyes without shirking.
“How dare you?” My voice was little more than a whisper, but I saw the satyr startle at the power that thrummed through my words.
He blinked.
I didn’t.
“Back away from me this instant.”
The satyr’s legs twitched as if his body wanted to obey even if his mind was trained always to threaten, always to push the boundaries more, always to overpower.
With effort, the satyr leaned toward me further. There was barely any room left between us, but the fraction of an inch that brought him closer to me was too much.
The satyr didn’t see it coming, bending his head back down to lick my other ear. Even I didn’t know how quickly the fire that flashed alive within me would roar.
A heartbeat thumped, exploring the vastness of my chest.
But there was no chance for another.
A great force exploded out of me, launching the satyr through the entryway and across the hall. The satyr hit the wall to the right of the tapestry that had once held him as securely as the castle walls did now.
I covered the distance in quick, sure steps, and I was there when he slumped to the floor. He was stunned as much by my power as by the force of impact. He sprawled, hairy, hooved legs wide and useless.
I closed in on him. He turned his head upward to meet the sound of my voice.
“You will not terrorize another creature, human or otherwise. Your reign of terror has come to an end.”
I didn’t give him the opportunity to respond. There was nothing he could say that would stop me from doing what I intended to do.
The element of air responded to me even before I knew I needed it. The air spiked within me, ready.
I put my hands out and lifted the air that surrounded the satyr. The matted fur hung limply from his body even though he thrashed around, resisting the invisible hands that held him.
I floated him until he hovered directly in front of his tapestry home. It was empty and dark now, the abstract outlines of a forest in the background, a setting without purpose.
I returned its purpose swiftly. I restored the satyr to the tapestry with all the delicacy he deserved. I flung him inside it. He bounced against the lone tree trunk before he landed on hooves and knees in front of it.
Immediately, he rose and stepped one hoof out of the textile. I hadn’t realized he wouldn’t automatically become the tapestry’s prisoner once he was within it.
But he had.
He realized he only had seconds to get out before I sealed him in there forever.
I raised one hand toward him again, and he froze. It was the hand that wore Marcelo’s promise ring, the ring that glowed now, hinting at all the magic it might contain. The satyr’s red eyes landed on my ring.
He didn’t move. He didn’t retract his leg, but he didn’t step out of the tapestry any further either.
“You must at least return the maiden to me.” His voice was inauthentic and supplicant.
“You won’t ever have her again.”
“But she’s part of this tapestry too! She’s part of my world. This is how she and I were created. The artist gave me the power, and she’s in my dominion. His enchantment limited us to the tapestry. We were to live within it, but I was to do with the maiden as I wished. It’s my right.”
“And now I’m changing all that.”
“But—”
“There will be no buts. The tapestry’s no longer your home. It’s now your prison.”
“You can’t do that.”
“You’re right. Perhaps I shouldn’t. But I won’t allow you to terrorize that poor girl or me or anyone else ever again. Instead of a prison, think of it as an opportunity to redeem your sins. See it as penance. Spend the time reflecting upon your actions.”
The satyr went to speak again but halted before the determined look on my face. Instead, he pushed his foot further out of the tapestry.
My hand was already uplifted. I directed the air to push his leg back into his threaded world. The satyr struggled. His eyes flared as he realized the tapestry was moments away from denying his freedom.
I lifted my other hand too, and the satyr roared, filling the entry hall with hatred and violence. An ugliness I was determined never to feel again floated around the room, sticking like an awful smell that would only dissipate but not disappear.
I twirled my finger in front of my face. My eyes never lost contact with the satyr. At first, only his upper body twisted.
My eyes lost their focus for a moment, enough to concentrate more power into my intentions. And then the power became too much for even the strong will of the satyr to resist. As if a stout gust picked up his legs, his lower body turned to match his upper body. He looked at the view that would be his forever.
I didn’t give him the chance to do anything else. The fifth element, the one that my magician teachers knew nothing about, rose to do my bidding. I wanted to seal the satyr in the tapestry, just as he was, so he couldn’t torment anyone else, not even with his frozen, embroidered stare. He might be able to move about within the tapestry, but at least the fixed image of him the rest of us would see would spare us his heinous, depraved look.
My desire was all it took. Magic was desire made manifest, and the fifth element was the coalescence of magic.
The satyr stilled. The threads bonded him where and as he was.
Chapter 2
I stared at what I’d done for so long that the shock began to wear off and I accepted that, once again, I’d done magic whose power and process I didn’t understand.
But it was only when the maiden’s sobs grew louder that I pulled out of my trance and turned to face her. The reality of her freedom from the satyr’s torment wracked her with relief.
Her steady cries accentuated the stillness of everyone who surrounded her. Mordecai looked at me, as frozen as the satyr. Marcelo had reappeared, his footsteps the ones I’d heard coming to my rescue. But he’d stopped halfway across the entry hall to watch me.
Other creatures freed from their art were immobile too. I couldn’t tell if it was from fear I’d do the same to them, relief that the satyr was gone, or curiosity at magic they might not have seen before. Perhaps it was a little of all three.
With so many eyes on me, discomfort rose up my neck and colored my cheeks. Lately I’d grown used to the stares as I did something I shouldn’t have or supposedly couldn’t have. But the roomful of eyes trained on me now overwhelmed me. There were hundreds of creatures I didn’t believe existed beyond the world of myths just a few years ago, when I still lived at Norland Manor, before my life turned upside down. And every single one of them looked at me.
“Oh, come on then. Say something. It’s not that big of a deal,” I said. But no one took me up on my request. “Right?” My words became an entreaty. Please tell me I’m not that strange. I’m already banished from the world I grew up in because of how I am. Don’t alienate me from this world too just because we don’t understand my powers.
The flapping of small wings interrupted my thoughts and summoned our gazes to follow Sir Lancelot’s hurried flight from Marcelo’s shoulder, across the room, to mine. “Can you do the same with all these other bothersome creatures too, Lady Clara?”
I laughed a nervous laugh, relieved that Sir Lancelot found humor in our situation
, overrun with mythical and ancient creatures never intended to live a life beyond their art.
Soon, the chattering complaints of the creatures that invaded the common halls drowned out any thoughts that I might have done something wrong.
“That’s nice of you to say, owl.” A pixie, who looked fearsome despite her diminutive size, flew over to us and stared Sir Lancelot down with a particularly nasty look. “As if you weren’t from a painting too, you hypocrite.”
Sir Lancelot gasped in affront. I was convinced he forgot he was an owl most of the time. “For your information, pixie, I was summoned from my painting, purposefully, by the Count of Bundry.” Sir Lancelot puffed out his chest importantly.
“And we were summoned by Lord Albacus of Irele just before he died.”
“Albacus,” Mordecai said sharply.
Marcelo and I’d been cautious not to mention his brother’s name until Mordecai was ready to speak of what happened.
“My brother ordered you out of the art?” Mordecai asked.
A wave of heads, of all sizes and sorts, nodded up and down enthusiastically. There were the pixies and fairies, phoenixes and dragons—thankfully, only miniature ones—gnomes and imps, and a whole array of creatures I couldn’t readily identify by name, although I suspected some of the others might be leprechauns, brownies, and infant trolls. I made a mental note to consult a book on mythical or fantastical creatures later, because these were the creatures that didn’t exist in the “normal” world I’d grown up in.