Pure Magic by A.S. Fenichel

Author:A.S. Fenichel
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: A.S. FENICHEL

Chapter

Fourteen

ADAM

As the first gray of daylight makes its way over the horizon, what she said still bothers me. Lose me. She thinks she could lose me. How can she not know that I’d have come back when I was able?

Moving off the road and into the woods, we wind slowly to the Northwest. “The horses need rest, water, and food.”

“So do I.” She sounds weary.

The scent of burning peat forces me to a stop. “Do you smell it?”

“A hearth fire.” She stops beside me. Tiny strands of hair have come loose of her tight braid, and she pulls her cape close around her throat.

Spring has come early, but a chill is in the air nonetheless.

“Shall we see if the owner of the hearth is willing to give aid?” I ask.

“I’d risk a lot to get out of this saddle for a few hours.” She walks Zephyr forward. In the saddle of the big gray mare, she looks like a fairy princess. Even worn out from the ride, she’s stunning.

As the woods lighten, we come upon a small stone house with a thatched roof and a smoking chimney.

Magic simmers in the air.

Sara Beth holds up her hand, and a silver ball forms in her palm. She whispers a spell, and the light dances around the house like a fairy looking for someone to play with. She grins. “I feel you are in the light, friend. May two who are also children of Goddess rest in your home?”

The heavy wooden door opens, and a man in his twenties steps out. Warm brown skin, black, curly hair, eyes dark as night, and staff in hand, he studies us. “You have business here?”

“It’s a long story, but I know your heart is pure. If you’ll help us, I’ll tell our tale.” Sara Beth drops to the ground, and her knees give a little. She steadies herself against the horse.

The man rushes to her side and grips her shoulders. “You’ve been in the saddle a long time, madam?”

“All night.” She smiles, steadier on her feet. “I am Sara Beth Ware, and this is my friend Adam MacNab. We need a safe place to rest, and the horses need care and rest.”

Climbing down from my saddle, my legs shake a little too. I take my pack from the back of the saddle and step closer to Sara Beth.

Eyes wide, the man bows his head briefly. “High priestess of Windsor,” he whispers. “I’m honored. I’ll care for the horses, and my home is yours.” He steps back and takes the reins.

“And you are, sir?” Sara Beth asks.

He tugs at the frayed sleeve of his homemade coat. “Jasper Lyon.”

“You don’t sound French, Mr. Lyon.” Sara Beth removes her pack.

I take it from her and watch our host and the surroundings. He seems a nice enough man, but I’m concerned about stopping in a place where Sara Beth is known. Perhaps her name is known by witches far and wide in England, but here in the middle of nowhere, worries me.

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