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The Witch Stone 3/12/2007 5:58:56 AM
The Witch Stone, by Brenda Williamson
Whiskey Creek Press Torrid
Excerpt:
The front door stood open. It didn’t seem right, and yet, he sensed all along, Azrielle knew he’d follow her. The living room, bathed in candlelight, confirmed his suspicions. A small fire for atmosphere, danced on a log in the fireplace, and in the air, hung a faint trace of cinnamon. Her plan to seduce him brought a smile to his lips, and rushed the anger completely out of his thoughts.
I don’t have all day, love, he thought-talked to her.
The idea of touching her one more time kept him light-headed. Entertaining the dream of her delicate kiss worked in opposition of his rule not to get involved. He decided a sip of her delicious lips would not help convince him to get far away from her.
Azrielle, come now. If you want to talk, I’m willing to explain my position better.
Sitting on a leather chair, he flicked on the television and waited for her intended grand entrance. Scrolling through the channels, he stopped at the weather channel and listened for the night’s forecast. Rain. He felt that prediction in his joints, but he always liked to double check.
I’ll leave if you don’t come in here soon.
When she didn’t reply, he straightened and tried sensing her in the house.
Azrielle?
She still didn’t respond, and the house took on an eerie silence. Bram jumped up from the chair. He checked every room unable to find her. Panic welled in his soul, and then he saw the sliver of light outlining the pull-down stairs in the third floor ceiling. He tugged the cord and raced up, ready to chastise her for scaring him.
I haven’t time for these games. He looked at her lying on a daybed.
She didn’t answer and he looked at her stillness suggesting she took flight.
His gaze drifted over the length of her physical-self lain out on the small mattress. Dressed in white shorts, a short red t-shirt, he stared the longest at her chest. Without a bra, her prominent nipples poked the cloth from beneath.
Bram rubbed at his jaw in thought and then looked at her face, quiet and serene. He wondered what kind of game she played with him. He inventoried the rest of her luscious body. No shoes, no socks, he looked at the pentagram tattoo on her ankle with the dagger symbol. He had seen that very symbol far too many times on dead witches.
Azrielle. He shook her arm.
Unresponsive, his heart fluttered toward panicking.
Azrielle, come at once. He ordered her aura.
He never failed in commanding an astral aura back to its physical self.
Azrielle, I don’t know what powers you have to resist me, love. But I need you to return right now.
Not a muscle twitched on her.
Everything felt wrong to him. He lifted a leg onto the bed and stretched out next to her. If he couldn’t get her to come to him, he’d go to her.
Bram gathered her close and tried not to think the worst. Cool and rigid, her shallow breath started to slow. In an instant, he took flight.
He landed in the darkest room, he’d ever seen. His hand went out to will any light available. One tiny flame sprung from the wick of a candle and he turned to it. Walls of stone faced him in all directions. As his eyes adjusted to the low level of light, he saw the table with Azrielle’s unconscious astral aura lying in suspended sleep.
He hadn’t ever seen anyone use such a powerful spell that it rendered a witch’s astral aura incapacitated.
Azrielle, open your eyes, love, he commanded.
He brushed the auburn hair from her face. The fragileness of her fading life pulled his lips to hers, and he kissed a warm breath of strength into her lungs. The spell or potion had a potency he couldn’t supersede. Scooping her up, he held her close.
No fear, love. I have you back. He kissed her forehead and took them to their physical-selves.
