Prologue

The Time of Bron Trogain

Salem Village

1692

"Elsbeth Winslow, you are under arrest for the vile crime of witchcraft!"

Elsbeth dropped the large wooden spoon into the pot of stew hanging from the hob in the hearth. She whirled to face her husband as he entered their tiny cottage. "Not you, John."

His six foot form blocked the late evening sunlight streaming from the entry door of their cottage. His brows beetled over eyes grown mad with heightened emotion. His once precious mouth, a hard, slim slash across his face, brooked no disobedience.

Elsbeth straightened to her full height, ignoring the stew she'd set to heat. Would the sun never set on this terrible day? Tomorrow would be no better. There would be more arrests, more questions, more sentences and more hangings. Men, women and children were sick and dying in the crowded jails before they could be brought to trial or hanged.

With charges now brought against her, Elsbeth knew there was only one decision she could make. She must flee Salem Village. She must take her daughters and leave as quickly as possible. But first, she would have to get past her husband.

John closed the door behind him and strode closer. She backed up a step, but the hearth was behind her. She could retreat no farther.

"Don't do this evil thing, John. I'm taking our daughters and leaving Salem. Do not try to stop me."

The firelight from the hearth flickered, revealing John's face clearly for the first time since he'd entered the cottage. An ebony hue dulled his eyes. They were no longer the warm, gentle brown of years past, and lacked the sparkle of life and laughter that had always lit up the whiskey-colored depths.

Bewitched! Her husband was bewitched. Elsbeth barely stifled a gasp. "John." Her throat went dry. Her voice sounded hoarse to her ears. "Samhain," she breathed, invoking the god of the dead. "Help me!"

A wave of cold sweat broke over her. Her chest tightened as if the evil magic poisoning John's soul squeezed the life from her heart. She couldn't breathe. A veil of blackness slid over her vision. She shook her head to keep from swooning.

Someone had recently used Black Magick on her husband. The evil enslaving his mind reeked. Her eyes burned from the noxious, rotten-egg scent enveloping him. She wrinkled her nose, her nostrils flaring. The musky scent of sex and the spicy aroma of another witch rose from his close-fitting doublet and baggy breeches.

He'd lain with another. Not John! her heart cried. It hurt. The jagged splinters of pain piercing her soul could feel no worse than if she'd been stabbed through the heart with a dagger. Dear Samhain, she could not bear this betrayal.

John was lost to her now, as surely as if Death had lifted his skeletal fingers and plucked her husband away to the Underworld. There was no undoing another witch's Black Magick.

Elsbeth blinked. Her eyes stung with unshed tears. A sob as big as a toad's banyan lodged in her throat. It was too bad full-blooded witches were incapable of tears. She wanted nothing more than to fall to the floor in a sobbing heap like the illumrof females.

Instead, her heart bled crimson droplets of sorrow. She wept for what had once been and would be no more. Fleeing with her daughters to the safety of her own realm was the only choice left to her now. Her mind screamed an urgent warning. Go! Hasten! Run!

Cautiously, she stepped around John.

He grabbed her arm, twisting her to face him. "Do not consider leaving, Beth. There is nowhere for you to hide." He tightened his fingers around her wrist. "You will come with me. Magistrates Hathorne and Corwin are waiting to examine you this night."

Her slippers skidded across the dirt floor as he tugged her toward the door. Terror jittered up her spine, chilling her blood. Her pulse quickened. Dear Samhain, she couldn't think with the scent of that other witch all over him.

She drew a deep, soothing breath, slowly exhaled, and told herself to remain calm.

"Let go of me."

"You are guilty of casting spells. You must be punished for your crimes."

"I have cast no spells. I am innocent of any wrongdoing." She clawed at his hands, wincing as his fingers bit into her shoulders. Her nails broke on his hard flesh.

"You have conspired with the Devil. Spawn of Satan! Cease fighting or I will drag you to the hangman and place the rope around your neck myself."

She couldn't bring herself to obey or even to look into the eyes that had once been clear and brown as a rom's wing. There was no mistaking John's voice, but the cold tone was unnatural.

He yanked harder on her arm. "Move, Beth. Now!"

Elsbeth cried out as she lost her balance and stumbled toward him. She bit her lip, digging her nails into his wrist. Her heart pounded. The children! She had to get to her children. She wrenched free and put distance between her and John--what distance the crowded room allowed. He stepped squarely in front of the ladder to the loft and blocked her path to the children.

Slowly, she slid her hand across her aching chest, in a useless attempt to soothe the heaviness there. It would not be soothed as long as her babies were in danger. How could she get to her daughters when John stood between her and the way up to the loft where they slept?

She closed her eyes. To reach trance state, she needed to visualize the once-peaceful haven of her home, the low fire crackling in the hearth, the kettle hooked on the hob whistling a merry tune as steam shot from its spout in a wet hiss. She pictured the weak flame of the tallow candle, nearly burned to a stub as it flickered on the long table where they broke their fasts.

"Stop this witch's trickery! Your Devil's games will not work with me. I have no fear of you."

Her eyes snapped open. Uneasy shadows danced on the rough, log walls, shadows cast by the guttering flame of the candle. Chills snaked up her spine. "Flickering shadows are a bad omen," she whispered, "a sign of things yet to come."

She thrust wispy strands of her hair under her mobcap and lifted her gaze to John. His face was set with determination.

"You talk nothing but foolish jabbering."

At last, he'd moved from her path. She scooted around the end of the table and headed to the rickety ladder propped against the wall below the loft. Her daughters slept up there and she was determined to get them to safety.

Samhain forgive her! She'd thought they were safe in this world, safe from the soul-stealers of her realm, safe from witch assassins. But she was wrong and her mistake cost her husband's soul.

Even the villagers were not protected from the vile accusations of power hungry illumrofs or ill-met witches who sold their souls to gain knowledge of Black Magick. Those who were innocent of practicing the Black Arts were tried, convicted, and executed alongside the guilty.

Of a sudden, John's burning anger slammed into her with the driving force of a hammer. Her bosom heaved as she struggled to keep from revealing her panic. His fury was unjustified; if anyone had the right to be enraged, it was surely she.

Someone hated her enough to destroy her marriage. Who? The accusing girls? She'd done nothing to them. They weren't witches, just unwise girls who'd swept the village into panic with their foolish lies and acts of convulsive seizures.

Elsbeth shivered. It should have been warm and toasty inside the room, but a chill pervaded her bones. Ice settled like a cold lump of congealed porridge in her belly, yet sweat glazed her palms. She stiffened under the onslaught of an evil presence that closed around her like a heavy cloak. Dark and venomous, the putrid Black Magick surged into the room, filling it, surrounding them and twisting her husband into a stranger.

John stared at his hands as if he didn't know they belonged to him. He looked up, his expression dark and thunderous with hatred.

Desperate, she whirled around, searching for any weapon to defend herself and her children. Her gaze fell on the ax leaning against the wall by the ladder. She grabbed it. "Stay back!"

Spittle flecked John's lips. His eyes bulged, wild and horrific. He charged toward her like a wild bull.

She raised the ax in warning. "Stop! I swear I will use it!"

He stilled. His big body seethed with convulsive rage.

"This is a heinous thing your people are doing, hanging innocents and crushing them with stones! I'm taking my babies and leaving this wicked realm."

"Put down the ax, Beth. You are coming with me."

"Get over to the other side of the table. Stay there or I will turn you into a legless lizard."

She knew she had stunned him. She stunned herself! She had always been the obedient wife, but he'd cast away his right to give her orders. Her lips trembled. Dread lurched in her heart. She couldn't face this alone. She needed help.

Hesitating but a second, John put the table between them as she'd ordered. She lowered the ax to the floor, raised her arms in a graceful arc above her head, and swayed from side to side. Outside, the wind rose, howling fiercely through the trees so the window panes rattled. Sparks crackled and leapt up the chimney.

Drawing in a deep breath, Elsbeth chanted, summoning the Coven of the Sisterhood:

"Circle of three,

I summon all.

Come to me,

Heed your sister's call."

She had no idea if the Sisterhood would answer her summons, but she knew they would hear her pleas. This night, the time of Bron Trogain, the Coven's power reached its zenith.

"Please. Help me!" Elsbeth tossed back her head, clenched her fists, and repeated the summoning chant. She prayed her words would bring them to her. The wind rose in strength, a screeching howl as it carried her pleas to the Coven.

"Stop it!" John shouted.

She continued her soft chant, ignoring his outburst. She couldn't risk her children, not when John had so betrayed her. She pleaded for guidance, begged for help, made promises to the Circle of Three. Not for herself, but for her daughters.

The wind died away, so suddenly, she knew she'd lost. The Coven wasn't coming.

I've failed! Failed as a wife, failed to protect those I love.

She hadn't expected them to save her; not after she'd wed a mortal and abandoned the Coven. Although her children were Impures because of their human blood, she'd thought the Circle might at least save her daughters.

Lifting her head, she watched as John withdrew a paper from his vest pocket and shook it at her. It was a warrant for her arrest.

"Being wed to you has ruined my life." Accusation soured his once handsome face. "You have no ability to produce sons." His lips drew together, tight with contempt. "This warrant is for all of you. Awaken your daughters. They will hang beside you." His lips twisted with victory. "Know this, I have bedded another and she now carries my son in her belly."

Elsbeth swallowed hard. A child? A son? Her soul cried out. Her heart splintered and bled. Her husband would gladly hand her over to the magistrates just to gain his freedom. That treachery alone was enough to shatter her wounded spirit. But for him to create a child with another, and be willing to watch his daughters hang was unforgivable.

She lifted her chin. "Turn me over to the magistrates if that is your desire, but I will not allow you or the magistrates to harm our daughters."

"Obey me or pay the price."

"Search your heart. I know you do not truly feel this contempt for me. You have always been a righteous man, and now you are compelled. You are hexed. Fight it, John! We can go away and start over. Remember how happy we were?"

For a moment, his eyes--those dark, unfathomable eyes--sought hers. In that brief connection, she saw a second of lucidity. Deep grooves bracketed his mouth. Pain twisted his face. Tears spilled down his cheeks in a pale ribbon. "Beth," he choked. "Forgive me."

Then he cast off his remorse, as once more the oily spell blackened his mind. He mopped his tears on the back of his shirt sleeve, and his eyes glittered with renewed venom. "I renounce you!" he shouted. He clenched his fingers. "Your witchmarks will determine your guilt."

Elsbeth closed her eyes. Fool! He couldn't see the invisible witchmarks any more than she could die from a rope. True, severe injuries ripped the soul from a witch's body and it could take centuries before it found its way back, but fire was the true enemy. There were others, but fire was the most damaging. It could force her spirit into an eternal black void, but John didn't know that. No one but another witch would know.

He dropped his gaze to her breasts. "You tempted me with your lush body."

"Do not tempt me into turning you into a croaking toad! Harm me or our daughters and I will do exactly that! Now get out of my way!"

John threw up his hands. "Take your daughters," he ordered. "Do what you will, for they are as evil as you. I never want to see them again! Get out!"

Elsbeth flinched at his cruel words.

"I have watched you in the woods with them. I have seen the magic fly from their fingertips," he ranted. "I have witnessed your chanting, summoning the Devil. The silver-haired one--"

"Saylym," Elsbeth interrupted. "Your daughter's name is Saylym. She is but two, John. How can you fear her? We were not summoning Satan but asking for blessings upon our home. Your children love you. You are their father."

"No," he denied. "Demon seeds! They are rooted from Satan's own seed, not mine."

The light of fanaticism glowed in his eyes. He looked feverish, his face flushed with madness. Sweat trickled down his cheeks and throat and dampened the neck of his shirt despite the cool of the evening.

The leaves outside rustled against the window. The wind rose to a fierce howl until it surrounded the cottage. The Coven! Elsbeth's heart raced with excitement. Her pulse pounded.

"Mama?" The frightened voice came from their eldest, six-year-old Nyra.

Elsbeth whipped around and looked up to the loft. "Go, Nyra! Wake Saylym and Kirrah. Gather your sisters. Quickly! Our Coven draws near."

"No!" John yelled. "It cannot be!"

Elsbeth turned her attention to her husband. Her steps faltered at the sight of the heavy, flintlock pistol shaking in his hands. Revulsion filled his eyes as he aimed it toward her. She drew a sharp breath at the sound of the lock mechanism snapping into place as he cocked the gun. "The children," she said faintly. "Please. Do not do this terrible thing, I beg you."

Not a whisper of remorse glimmered in his eyes as his finger tightened on the trigger. Elsbeth threw up her arms in defense. The sound of the gunshot exploded through the cottage.

Diary Entry

Ru-Noc: Land of Witches and Wakens.

There was a time when witches and wakens dwelled in the illumrof realm, the world of ordinary mortals. This time was joyous; one of festivals, prosperity and plenty.

In the year of Samhain, 1692, the Great Feast came as it always had, but the Pagan rituals were not celebrated. The fields lay fallow. There were no cuttings of sweet corn to bury as an offering to the earth.

Bron Trogain came, bringing with it the change in the length of day but there was no Last Feast of the season. A great pall lay upon the land. It was a year of unforgivable sorrow.

Terror filled the hearts of those accused of witchcraft, both mortal and immortal.

They were black days for the witches of Salem Village.

Death had arrived--

And his visit would be a long one.

-From the Winslow History of Witches.

In the Year of Samhain, 1692

Chapter One

Nine-year-old Elizabeth Parris and eleven-year-old Abigail Williams began to exhibit strange behavior, such as blasphemous screaming, convulsive seizures, trance-like states and mysterious spells. Shortly after this, several other Salem girls began to demonstrate similar behavior.

Salem Witch Trials

January 20, 1692

Sanctuary

Time of Beltane

315 years later

The hairbrush in Saylym Winslow's hand came alive, wiggling worse than a worm on a hook. With an earsplitting scream, she flung the brush across the bathroom and pressed a hand against her run-away heart.

Unfortunately, the brush landed in the commode with a distinctive plop. Water slapped over the sides of the porcelain rim, splattering onto the worn tiled floor.

Biting her lip, Saylym tiptoed to the toilet bowl and peered over the edge, then jumped back. Her breathing rattled to a dead stop in her chest. "Ohmigod! I don't believe it!"

The brush had inched its way up the side of the white porcelain as if it had suddenly sprouted hands and feet to pull itself up the wet surface. It reached the top, tottered for a second, then toppled over onto the floor and flopped like a fish out of water.

"No more," Saylym moaned. "Please. I can't stand one more inanimate thing coming to life."

She fled the bathroom and to the safety of the bedroom. She paused to take a deep breath, then grabbed the doorknob and slammed the bathroom door shut behind her. Bloody hell! She was losing her freakin' mind.

A number of odd things had happened since she'd slipped that darn ring on her finger a month ago, but a hairbrush coming alive and crawling out of a toilet rated pretty high on her list of weird events.

"A brush does not walk or crawl," she muttered. "Books don't float in the air and brooms don't fly. Ha!"

Her world had gone off-kilter the moment she arrived in Sanctuary. No, that wasn't exactly right. It started when she bought the old map from an antiques store in London. As soon as she got home, she unfolded it, then closed her eyes and pointed randomly to a place on the map to call her new home.

When she opened her eyes and looked, her fingertip rested on a little speck squeezed in beside Salem Village on the old map of the Early Colonies of the Americas and the east coast shoreline. Sanctuary. Her destiny. Without a moment's thought or taking the time to plan ahead, she packed a suitcase and caught the first available flight from London, and the rest was history.

Except in her case, it wasn't.

The city of Salem had been nothing but a blur as the cab driver raced through the late afternoon rush hour traffic. The elderly driver swished in and out of traffic like Gumby on crack, tooting the horn, yelling obscenities and making gestures his arthritic fingers shouldn't have been able to do.

When he finally pulled to the curb in front of a run-down building, she felt like kissing the ground. She hopped out, but her heart plummeted as she looked around. This couldn't be the right place. What was the cabbie thinking?

"That will be fifty dollars plus tip."

The old man stood there, holding out his hand, waiting for his money.

"But this is an antiques shop. I want to go to the town of Sanctuary, not a shop named Sanctuary," she said, reading the faded letters on the display window of the building next to which he'd parked.

"Sanctuary isn't a town anywhere near Salem, missy. If you really want to go there, then you will have to discover the magical path inside the shop," he said, pointing and cackling.

She should have realized the cab driver with the grizzled white whiskers and brilliant blue eyes was a tad bit 'out there'. While the car idled, she dragged out the single piece of luggage she'd brought with her. Then, muttering beneath her breath about idiot drivers and inflated taxi rates, she handed him the fare.

Instead of giving her change for the hundred dollar bill she handed him, he placed a ring in her hand and slipped the money in his pocket.

"When you enter the shop, put on the ring, and rub it three times," he said.

"Why? Will a genie pop out?" Crazy old coot.

She felt like screaming, give me back my money! But losing forty dollars was worth it just to get this fruit loop away from her.

His eyes twinkled with mystery as he got back behind the wheel of the taxi. "Rub the ring," he said, and punched down on the gas, shooting away in a cloud of smoky exhaust fumes.

Nibbling on her bottom lip, Saylym stared at the antiques shop. Frustration quivered through her, setting her teeth on edge. How could a town on the map not exist? Now that the driver had raced away and deserted her she was at a loss.

"Rub the ring," she mimicked. "That will solve all your problems. Right."

Why hadn't she had the forethought to make hotel reservations? She simply hadn't taken the time to plan ahead. Now, look at the mess she was in. With nowhere to go and not another taxi in sight, she might as well go inside the store and rub the ring!

She slipped the square-cut emerald onto her finger and pushed open the door of the shop.

As soon as she rubbed the ring, swirling circles of radiant light closed around her, gravity lost its grip, and she was lifted into the air. The empty room in the shop started to spin, slowly at first, then faster and faster. She clenched her eyes shut, gasping, trying desperately to draw in a breath. Pressure built around her as if she was spinning inside a centrifuge. Spinning. Spinning. Faster and faster, until she was hurled out of the shop, out of reality as she knew it.

When she opened her eyes, instead of the crash landing she expected, she found herself pushing through a spectrum of rainbow colors soft as cotton candy. The dazzling colors stole her breath and she stared at them in wide-eyed wonder. It was as if she had stepped out of one world and through a prism into another. The brilliant colors faded, leaving her feeling slightly intoxicated and unsteady on her feet.

Bewildered, she looked around and decided she'd lost grip on reality. She'd never felt so lost or so alone in her life. Behind her, an ancient looking forest rose, majestic as a snow-capped mountain. The countryside was thick with giant-sized pine trees weighted down with heavy, curling, spruce-green boughs that reached for a sky that was a most peculiar shade of lime green and lemon yellow. Pink, fluffy clouds dotted the sky like lollipops.

Over-sized mushrooms lay scattered across the forest floor and birds of all colors and sizes darted through the trees. Small animals raced to and fro to their burrows, busy as bees.

The forest stretched endlessly to her left and to her right, nearly surrounding a tiny, quaint village spread before her. It reminded her of pictures she'd seen of colonial settlements. She blinked in disbelief. How could that be? Had she somehow been flung back in time? If so, where was she? And what was with all the odd colors?

She darted a glance over her shoulder at the woods behind her. It would soon be dark. She had to find shelter for the night. She glanced down at her jeans, and noted a new rip on the knee. How had that happened? Struggling to fight the panic closing in on her, she looked around for her one piece of luggage. It was nowhere to be seen.

Then as if something or someone had read her mind, her suitcase appeared beside her. She grabbed the luggage handle. At least she would have clean clothes. Before she could gather her wits, a clap of thunder and a strange-sounding cackle filled the peculiar sky above the trees. From out of nowhere appeared an ancient looking, white-haired woman.

"What a rush!" she hooted, rocking unsteadily on her heels. She straightened the pointed red hat that had tilted to one side and cackled again, revealing shiny pink gums. She shook out the long, blue skirt dusting the ground and straightened her bodice. She looked like the wicked witch of the west, except her face wasn't green and her clothes were too colorful. "Welcome to Sanctuary, Saylym Winslow," she said, clapping her hands. "We've waited a long time for your arrival."

Saylym quietly and calmly passed out at the old lady's feet.

When she came to, the crone had somehow managed to get her inside a cottage and onto a bed. The hag declared the cottage now belonged to Saylym. And guess what? She, meaning Saylym, was lucky enough to have her, meaning the hag, for a next door neighbor.

So here she was, a month later, living in Sanctuary, next door to Eldora Waters. She had a deed to the cottage. The old lady had slapped it into her hands the day she arrived, informing her it was a gift from an anonymous benefactor. Presto! Housing problem solved. She also had a shop, bought from the former owner, one Dottie Wesman, at a knock-down price.

This might imply that she had settled in nicely, but Saylym was still as puzzled as when she'd arrived. Nothing the old lady said made a lick of sense, and when she asked people in the village where the city of Salem was located or how to get there, horror masked their faces and they shied away from her. No help there.

Her life had flipped upside down.

Why did that old cab driver have to be the only cabbie at the airport that day?

Saylym frowned at her reflection in the dresser mirror. Faint color bloomed on her cheekbones, the same shade as her pink cotton shirt. If she was going insane, she may as well enjoy the journey.

It was illogical, but either she accepted that she now lived in another world where common household items developed quirky personalities, or she declared herself mentally unstable. Neither thought was acceptable.

She gathered her hair, twisted the ends into a loose knot, and held a jeweled clip in front of her face. "Please don't come alive. Don't bite me or change into anything really ugly," she begged, then clipped her hair in place.

She crossed her fingers and waited. No signs of hostility from the clip. She uncapped a tube of lipstick and brought it to her puckered lips, then hesitated, eyeing the glossy pink color.

Something was going to happen. It was too darn quiet.

Everything in the house seemed to be holding its breath, just waiting for her to make the ultimate mistake. "Nuh-uh. No way." She shook her head, recapped the lipstick and tossed it back on the dresser. The way her day had started, there was no telling what would happen if she put on lipstick. Maybe she'd sprout warts on her lips.

The unexpected jingle of the phone startled her, and she zipped across the room and grabbed it off the nightstand. "Sanctuary's House of Insanity."

"Hi, Angelmine. You sound stressed."

Her mum's voice came through the receiver so clearly, she could swear she was right next door, instead of thousands of miles away in England. Angelmine. She blinked back tears. Her mum always called her that.

"Hi, Mum."

"Are you ready to give up this nonsense about independence and come home? I miss you."

Saylym ignored the question. No way was she going to admit she was a failure and was stuck in Sanctuary. Neither was she going to get into another argument about going home. She'd stick with her decision, even if she felt like Dorothy in the Land of Oz.

"Mum, by chance, is there a family history of witches?"

For a moment, utter silence filled the phone line, then she heard a sharp gasp, and then her mum replied, "Not that I can say, dear." A choked laugh escaped her. "Of course, your father might have been a waken."

Saylym moaned. "Waken?"

"A male witch."

"Mum! I'm serious. Weird things are--"

"I only slept with him the one time," her mum supplied quickly. "We weren't exactly discussing our family history. Well--er." A choppy breath. "I have to dash, darling. Uh--my date's here."

"Your date? Mum, you don't date. I need to explain..."

"Have to go, dear. I'll call you again, soon. Love you. Bye!"

"Wait, Mum!"

She was talking into a dead phone. Dropping the receiver back into the cradle, she snorted. "Bye, Mum. Thanks for sharing more information than I wanted." She rolled her eyes. "Waken? Right."

Her mum was hiding something.

Shrugging, she glanced at her watch then sighed. As the new owner of a business, she was going to be late opening this morning if she didn't hurry. So what if the shop was a gimmicky magic-supply place? A business should be run professionally. That was her personal motto.

Saylym squared her shoulders and stuck out her chin. Her mum would say she had that glint in her eyes again but no damned wriggling brush was going to make her late for work.

She drew a sharp, steadying breath. "Courage, my girl," she whispered.

She had no idea who her father was, but that did not mean she didn't come from good, hardy, English stock. From this day forward, she was going to ignore the little oddities plaguing her life.

She paused to straighten a wrinkle off the comforter. She might not be normal, but she was tough. She was brave. She could deal with it.

But how, exactly?

The answer presented itself. It was easy. Whenever something strange happened, she would tune it out by humming a ditty or two. Maybe she was hormonal or bi-polar or something equally boring, but she wouldn't let silly hallucinations bother her any more.

"I'd appreciate it if you'd keep the snoring down to a muted level tonight."

Saylym jumped at the sound of the deep, masculine voice. She whirled around, her gaze making a quick search of the bedroom. "What? Wh-who said that?"

There was no one in the room but her. No one she could see, anyway.

"I did. Here!" A sharp whistle pierced the air.

She turned back toward the bed. "Oh. My. God!"

Smack in the center of the massive pinewood headboard was a single, glaring red eyeball and a set of thick lips just below a flat, ugly nose.

"Eewww!"

A snort escaped the thick lips.

Saylym fell back a step and slapped a hand over eyes. "I don't see you. I don't hear you. No! No! No! You're not there. Hummmmm."

"Yes, I am. Uncover your eyes, witch. Stop that awful humming and pay attention."

She parted her fingers, peeping at the eyeball. "Go away. You're not real. Stay out of my imagination. Hummmmm."

"I'm real, sister. Now, listen up. It's hard for a bed to get a decent night of sleep with those disgusting sounds you make. Keep it down!"

"I do not snore." Saylym dropped her hand from her eyes and glared at the bed.

"Well, that's true," the bed agreed. "You roar! You start making that noise tonight, and I'm rolling your ass out of bed. Got it?"

Saylym nodded, grabbed her purse off the over-stuffed chair in the corner, and backed out of the room. Whirling, she ran to the front door as if the hounds of Hell were nipping at her heels. She slammed the door behind her and leaned back against it, sucking in deep, calming breaths of fresh air.

Maybe she'd find a motel room for the night.

"The bed did not accuse me of snoring," she chanted between ragged breaths. "I don't snore. The bed did not call me a witch. I'm not a witch." Her hand trembled as she pressed it against her thundering heart. "Breathe in. Breathe out. You're losing your bloody mind!" In. Out. Breathe. Hummmmm.

She had to calm down. And she had to escape this insane house, before she went completely bonkers. Maybe she'd call her mum tonight and ask if insanity ran in the family. Her hands shook so badly, she could barely push the key in and lock the door.

"You don't have to lock your door, dearie, and besides, no lock could stop a witch from entering your home. That takes magic or symbolic witchmarks carved into the roof timbers."

The words came from the hag next door.

"Right," Saylym muttered, and drew in a sharp breath. Magic or symbolic witchmarks? Jeez! "Give me a break," she whispered.

She withdrew the key from the lock, plastered a cheerful smile on her face and turned to wave at her eccentric neighbor. She wasn't the only one losing her mind here. After a month of living beside Eldora Waters, her insanity must be rubbing off.

"You never know," Saylym replied, puffing a lock of tangled hair back from her face. "Stranger things have happened."

The old lady had to be approaching the century mark but she was on her knees weeding the flower beds. Her face looked like a weathered road map as she concentrated on pulling a stubborn weed.

Saylym slid her gaze over Eldora. Today, as always, she wore vivid bright colors. A bright, sunset-orange gown dusted the ground and today the pointy hat on top of her scraggly hair was sunburst yellow. A silver band with dark blue stars circled the crown of the hat. A black leather belt with a wide, silver buckle hugged her skinny waist. Her frizzy white hair poked up at odd angles above her ears like bits of straw. She looked as if a slight breeze would fell her.

The woman stopped pulling weeds and rose slowly to her feet. Saylym winced when she heard her knees creaking.

"Twenty thousand," she said, and cackled.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I'm approaching twenty thousand."

The old lady sounded so damn gleeful about it, that Saylym thought she just might kick her heels up in the air.

"Tomorrow's my birthday," she announced. "I broke tradition and changed it from All Hallows' Eve." She pinched the head off a dead blossom and tossed it aside. "Any witch can have her birthday on that day, but there isn't a single other witch whose birthday is May second."

"Congratulations and, uh, hap-happy birthday. And I'll be twenty thousand tomorrow, too," Saylym mumbled.

"Oh, no, dear. You'll be three hundred fifteen come All Hallows' Eve. You'll reach your majority. Twenty-one in illumrof years."

Three hundred fifteen? What the hell were illumrof years? And why was she even worried about what a crazy old lady said?

"I like twenty-one better," Saylym said. "Three hundred and fifteen tends to scare away my dates. How do you know when my birthday is, anyway?"

"Don't you know? I'm a witch," hooted the hag. "All witches are born on All Hallows' Eve, except me. I changed my birthday."

"Yes, I know." Dammit, she knew she shouldn't have encouraged the old lady. Eldora was as dotty as the grizzled cab driver. In fact, her eyes were the same brilliant blue. Maybe they were related.

Nothing could hide the mischievous sparkle in the old woman's sparkling blue eyes, but there was something fragile and faded about her. She was rather endearing when she wasn't rambling about witches and illumrofs. Whatever the hell they were.

"Another glorious day," the crone screeched, glancing up at the clear green/yellow sky. "Not a cloud in sight. A lovely such as you should have a handsome waken wooing her."

Saylym smiled. "Well, Miss Eldora, I haven't met any handsome er--wakens, since I came to Sanctuary." It suddenly dawned on her she hadn't met any males, wakens or otherwise. She'd been so busy setting up the shop and settling into the cottage, that she hadn't really noticed before.

The shop carried mostly gimmicks and souvenirs, but she had had plenty of customers. They had all been female. Strange.

Eldora nodded, placed a finger alongside her bulbous nose and cackled again. "Come Beltane, which begins today, dearie, the streets will be crawling with handsome young males by the witching hour. That's midnight tonight, dearie. They come here from Droth. That's on the other side of Annu Mountain, you know." She bobbed her head. "Sanctuary belongs to the Wiccans, but at Beltane--" Eldora gave a long sigh. "The wiser waken will be here early this morning. He won't wait until all the beautiful witches have been selected by others. Oh, no." She snickered. "You will be claimed immediately, my dear. No worries, there."

"Claimed?" Saylym felt her jaw drop.

She didn't want to be claimed, certainly not by a madman who believed he was a waken.

"Oh, yes. Some handsome waken is going to want you the moment he sees you. You can just bet he'll mark you."

A bubble of laughter escaped Saylym before she could prevent it. Beltane? Claimed? Marked? Ridiculous. It sounded as if the crone believed they lived in Pagan Druid times or something.

She made a mental note to stay inside the shop that day, even if it meant going back to face the demon bed after she closed. No waken was going to claim her. Not that she was buying into Eldora's tale of witches and wakens or anything

"The young males come for the Maypole Festival that will begin tomorrow night." Eldora picked up where she'd left off. "There will be bonfires on the mountain. Then the wakens will come down and start selecting mates." She popped her knuckles and laughed. "That is, if they can charm a pretty witch into it. Nothing like Beltane to get the juices flowing, you know. Hot, handsome wakens in search of hotter nookie."

Saylym choked. Good grief, a knuckle-popping granny discussing wakens looking for sex. She had to get away from here, before she exploded with hysterical laughter.

Eldora nodded. "Your Prince Charming is coming for you soon."

"Uh-huh." Saylym rolled her eyes. "Well, have a nice day, Miss Eldora. I'm off to the shop. Let's hope I have lots of customers today."

"Not today, dear. Today is for other happenings."

Saylym pursed her lips. Just a moment, the old woman sounded exactly like her mum. She took off down the street, determined to escape Eldora and her wild ramblings.

Sanctuary was a quaint, historical town. It might be early spring, but fat tubs of Lenten Roses perched on the boardwalk, their pale green, lavender, burgundy, and creamy white blossoms complemented by their leathery, evergreen foliage. Spaced at intervals, the cheerful blooms provided vibrant color to the town square. There were enough antique stores around to satisfy the most avid collector.

Before she could think more on the oddity of the small homes surrounding the village, Saylym saw a pillory, two stocks, and a whipping post in the town square. The sight was nostalgic, but it sent shivers of apprehension skittering down her spine. At one time, people had suffered from the use of those wicked instruments. If it was up to her, she'd have them torn down and burned.

Why would anyone want a reminder of pain?

But excitement hummed through Saylym's blood as she passed on. There was something about this town that made her feel as if she belonged. Why Sanctuary drew her, so, she didn't know, but she'd never felt so alive, content, or so safe, except when she was feeling insane, of course.

"I bet Mum would like it here," she said aloud. "Maybe she'll visit. I could use the company."

But perhaps Eldora was right, and someday she would meet her Prince Charming. Maybe she would fall in love, marry and have children. She'd grown up a lonely child. She wanted lots of babies to dote on one day.

Arching her neck, she raised her arms in an elegant arc toward the sky. A gentle breeze fluttered the soft folds of her black cotton skirt. It swirled lightly around her knees as she twirled around. "Oh, Prince, my handsome Prince," she chanted. "Come claim me."

She stuck the key into the lock of the shop door, pushed it open, and stepped inside. Smiling, she closed the door behind her and flipped the 'OPEN' sign around to face the street.

"Come and claim me." She snorted. "Right. And I'm the good witch, Glinda."

Diary Entry

Before the days witches dwelled in the mortal realm, times were troubled in the land of Ru-Noc. King Osh, along with the Waken Guild, ruled the land with a firm and cruel hand. In their quest for thrills, pleasure and power, wakens first sampled the splendid energy derived from witches' souls.

But this pleasure of simply tasting a soul could not satisfy the wakens' ravenous hunger and their females began to take exception to such abuse. In time, the wakens learned to seduce a witch first. At the moment of climax, when a witch's power is at its weakest, the waken stole his mate's soul.

Horrified by what was happening, the witches turned their backs on the wakens and sought their own ruler. They chose Leyla Winslow, the oldest and most powerful of witches, for their Queen. Combining their magical skills with Leyla's, the witches summoned a place from the ash of the mystical Phoenix, a place they could live, a place away from the tyranny of King Osh, a place forbidden to the wakens except at Beltane.

They named it Sanctuary.

-From the Winslow History of Witches.

In the Year of Samhain, 300

Chapter Two

Physicians were mystified and unable to determine any physical cause for the symptoms and dreadful behavior of the girls. They concluded that the girls were under the influence of Satan.

Salem Witch Trials

Mid-February, 1692

Sanctuary

The Time of Beltane

Present Day

Prince Talon leaned against a lamppost on the street corner, and folded his arms. A soft whistle of appreciation escaped his lips as he drank in the female's beauty.

The velvety sound of her laughter touched his skin, and he rubbed a hand over his heart as if she had staked her claim and owned property there.

Damn, she was lovely. Sexy.

He frowned. She was too busy eyeing those infernal instruments of torture to notice him near the town square. For some reason, that annoyed him. Witches always noticed him. Chased him.

She would notice him, he vowed. He intended to make damn certain she did.

His breath caught in his throat as he watched her twirling around and chanting. Her sweet voice wove a spell of seduction about him. Desire slammed into his gut.

He'd spent hot nights tangled between the sheets with beautiful, seductive witches, giving and receiving pleasure, but his body's instantaneous reaction to the pretty across the street was something new.

May First had certainly flexed her muscle early this season. Beltane, with its mystic, sexual, age-old pull, sent his species into a mating frenzy every spring. It was the time of year when wakens found it nigh impossible to resist the sensual allure of their females.

Her chanting sent his pulse pounding. Her words spun around him like golden threads weaving a magical cloak of sensuality.

"Oh, Prince, my handsome Prince. I'm waiting. Come claim me."

"Oh, yeah, baby, I'm right here."

His breath stilled as she turned, and for a single second, it seemed she would take that fateful step toward him. His blood heated, thickened. His groin tightened. Yes! Come to me!

Then she turned away, not even seeing him, and shrugged. "Prince Charming, my ass," she said and moved on down the street as if he were invisible.

Prince Charming? A brow shot up. That was a new one. Usually it was "Jerk" or even "Stubborn ass." Certainly, no one had ever accused him of being charming. Ah, but he was a prince. He had no intention of denying this particular witch her heart's desire, even if she hadn't been aware of him watching her.

She wanted her prince to claim her.

He intended to oblige.

Talon's smile faded, and he rolled his neck and shoulders. A strange tingle began in the pit of his stomach, skittered down his spine, and raced all the way to the tips of his toes. Ah, damn Beltane! Besides making one horny as hell, it did the most peculiar things to a waken.

The itchiness racing through his bloodstream wasn't unpleasant, but it was distracting. His brow furrowed as he attempted to gather his thoughts. He could smell her mating scents. The sensual tug of poppies along with the rich fragrance of the incense, kyphi, washed over him. Seductive. Addictive. An age-old pull as elemental as time itself.

The opium and kyphi aromas mingled in the air. It was familiar and alluring, as always.

But there was something else. Something long-forgotten. A teasing memory...?

A fragrance stored for hundreds of years in his mind. He froze.

An Impure? The distasteful pheromones of a half-breed flooded his nostrils.

He should have smelled the impurity in her blood immediately. Normally, he would have, but with Beltane weaving its sensual magic, his senses were more attuned to the mating scents pummeling the air.

It can't be right. She can't be an Impure.

He'd never be attracted to a half-breed.

Desire and revulsion waged a war in his mind. He sniffed the air again, just to make sure.

A half-breed!

Why did she have to be an Impure?

But--

He turned, his gaze remaining on her as she danced ahead of him along the boardwalk like a nymph. He couldn't help but follow.

When in blazes did she get here? How?

She wasn't local. There was no way he'd have missed her during previous mating seasons.

Just what was she doing here, anyway? Who had shown her the portal?

Talon shuddered. He simply couldn't be attracted to her. It was forbidden. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't slow the pounding of his heart, or take his eyes off her or keep from following her.

A mane of silver-blonde hair lay piled in a loose knot of tangled coils at the crown of her head. Soft, wispy curls dangled around her ears and throat. Her skin was as smooth as ivory silk, with just a hint of rose blooming in her cheeks.

Her lips. Samhain! Her mouth looked as lush and delicious as a ripe cherry.

Talon groaned as he imagined her lips gliding down his belly and exploring his sex. Heat exploded, imploding inside him. His body trembled. He curled his hands into tight fists and fought to regain control.

He hadn't been able to determine the hue of her eyes, but they appeared to be pale. He bet they were ice blue, hot ice, and full of raging, cobalt fire.

Full, firm breasts, without a hint of a jiggle, thrust against her pink top as she walked. They would fill a man's hands nicely. Her waist was narrow. She had slender hips, and her legs, as long and dainty as a gazelle's, could easily wrap around a man.

Revulsion and compulsion warred within him, and he felt his cock twitch and lengthen. The urgent need to claim her, to mark her as his became overwhelming, but he hesitated. If a prince chose an Impure for mating at Beltane, the repercussions would be immense. Oh, but she was lovely. And innocent. He could sense the innocence about her, as if she'd dwelled in a protective capsule and knew nothing of Ru-Noc. It was there, in the way she moved, the way she was fascinated by the antique instruments of torture, and the way she hadn't noticed him. Any knowledgeable witch would have seen him immediately and invited him to her bed.

If he charged across the street to claim her, he'd frighten her. To make the pretty feel threatened was the last thing he wanted to do. So he braced his shoulders against a lamppost and waited for his body to cool.

A bell jingled as she opened a door and entered a shop across the street.

Minutes passed. Beads of perspiration dotted his upper lip and forehead. Even now, after she'd disappeared inside the shop, he ached with violent need. "Ye Olde Witch's Brew Magick Shop." He read the sign over the shop door as he struggled with his raging hunger.

"There's something not right about that witch, Prince. I can feel it."

Automatically, Talon extended his right arm. A miniature violet-colored owl landed smoothly on the leather glove that protected his arm, and walked its way up to perch on his shoulder.

Talon stroked the downy feathers on its wing. "She's half-illumrof," he replied. "But I'm a big boy, Vox. I can take care of myself."

Vox gave an indelicate snort. "You're supposed to be house-hunting, Prince, not witch-hunting. You can't get involved with a half-mortal creature. You know very well illumrofs are not to be trusted, especially half-breeds with no loyalty to either race. You could end up dangling from a rope in the mortal world. Your parents and the Waken Guild will forbid a courtship!"

Talon issued a low rumble of impatience. "All I want is an opportunity to park my wand for the night. Besides, mortals don't believe in witches any more, Vox." He shrugged. "And who said anything about involvement?"

"It isn't you I'm concerned about, Prince. I know you. It's Beltane, a time for building relationships and bonding. You'd never willingly bind yourself to an Impure. 'Twould be madness. Absolute, frigging lost-your-ever-lovin'-teeny-weeny-princely-brain madness." The owl slanted its fierce gaze on him. "You'll break her heart, Prince."

"I'm not interested in her heart. I'm thinking mating."

"I know what you're thinking." The owl flapped its purple-tipped wings. "Are you listening to a damn thing I'm saying, Prince?"

Talon's lips curved into a slow, wicked smile. "Nothing wrong with mating."

"Nothing wrong with bonding, either, and it's certainly past time for a baby prince in the royal palace."

The smile faltered and vanished. "Shut up, Vox. No matter how beautiful she is, I'm certainly not going to risk breeding an Impure. Anyway, you know how impossible it is to procreate with so many witches infected with the virus. Once the desire is slaked, a man would become bored." He gave a long sigh. "Besides, if I should happen to dilute the royal bloodline with an illumrof child--well--like you said, the King and Queen won't allow it. Domestication isn't for me, not with her. She's ripe for bedding, but that's it."

The owl lifted off and hovered near Talon's head. Its wings stirred the air with a gentle flutter. "I'm going to the Wakens' Library of History to research. Leave her alone until I've tapped into her past, Prince. Without knowing her ancestors, even a simple mating could have serious consequences, particularly if you give her a child." Vox flapped his wings. "And that is what Beltane is all about. Isn't it, Sire? Nature's summons to reproduce?"

Talon studied the owl. "You know her name," he accused. "Don't you?"

"I'm the Wise Owl, aren't I? Leave her alone."

Talon shook his head. "You'd best hurry with your research, because I'm claiming her for the season. She's mine." He laughed softly. "I don't need to know her name to bed her."

The Futhar lifted off, circled the tops of a group of majestic Ark Trees, and then turned north in the direction of Droth.

"Do not claim the witch. Not before tomorrow. Give me time to check her history."

Talon grinned as the Futhar's words drifted through his mind. "Sorry, Vox. I'm afraid it's already too late. She's mine. She just doesn't know it yet."

Saylym flipped on the store lights and paused at the big window where she fiddled with the potted plants of the display.

She felt eyes burn into her. How strange. Pin pricks of awareness made her tense, and her gaze flickered to a man propped lazily against a lamppost across the street. Huh. How had she missed him?

How could a man look mysterious, sinister and sexy as hell all at the same time?

Maybe it was the effect of the head-to-toe black he wore. Black leather pants hugged muscular thighs. His silk shirt stretched taut across a wide chest, a chest made for a woman's head to rest upon. Her pulse pounded in response. What had she expected? This was the first hot male she'd seen in over a month. She was drooling.

His intent regard caught her curiosity. Even from across the street, she could feel his gaze caressing every inch of her body. Her skin tingled. Heat crawled over her, spreading to her loins. Her stomach clenched and jittered with unexpected need.

Her need, or his? She wasn't certain.

She only knew her body melted in response as images of the two of them tangled on black satin sheets floated in her head. His naked body covered hers. She gasped, digging her nails in the flesh of his back as he nudged her thighs apart and teased her with the broad head of his phallus.

Strong hands slid across her stomach in a slow, tantalizing caress. Long fingers plucked at her tight nipples before he lowered his mouth to suckle.

Saylym blinked, dissipating the vision in her head. Bloody hell! Her hands trembled as she brushed back a strand of hair. Her breasts ached. Her nipples throbbed with urgent need. She touched her trembling fingers to where she'd felt his mouth on her.

Somehow, their bodies and minds had connected. They'd shared those fiercely erotic images. Low in her belly, heat sizzled into a blazing fire.

He wanted to claim her. She read it in his mind.

Good heavens! Eldora's words must have affected her more than she realized.

Claim her?

Ha! More likely, he was a perverted stalker. He'd better stay out of her head!

Her chin went up, even as she remained trapped in the depths of his burning gaze. He acknowledged her with a slight dip of his head. A slow, wicked smile curved his lips. Blatantly, he tugged at the front of his pants as if they'd suddenly become too tight for him.

Bloody hell! There was nothing shy about the man.

Saylym swallowed hard and tried to ignore the jittering in her stomach. She saw his lips twitch as she ducked out of sight. She crept to the door, and keeping low, peeped over the top of the small window. He remained there, staring at the store.

His gaze couldn't possibly penetrate the walls of the building, but she could swear he knew exactly where she was inside the store. Icy fingers of apprehension crawled up her spine. She shivered.

Stop it!

But it shook her, the way he watched.

Her heart jumped. This was the sort of man her mum had warned her about. She could feel it. Well, he could just go right ahead and claim her, whatever that meant. She sure as hell wasn't about to roll over and spread her legs. If he wanted her, it would be on her terms. And her terms were: Ha! I think not!

As if he heard the silent challenge, he raised two fingers to his right temple, and sent her a brief salute. His shoulders moved as he gave a short laugh, then he turned to his right and sauntered down the boardwalk.

Huh. She had opened the cash register and begun counting the day's start-up cash when her stomach clenched with a sudden peculiar spasm. It was as if sparks of chain lightning danced through her body. She gasped and doubled over. Her head buzzed. Her ears popped. The entire sensation left her feeling lightheaded, yet oddly super-charged.

Whoa! What just happened?

No answer came to her silent query. She wasn't certain she wanted one.

Not today.

Today is for other happenings.

"No kidding."

A second surge of power blasted her. She jumped and stumbled backward. Her knees buckled under the onslaught of pure energy, as sparks of electrical currents danced around her body, outlining her figure in radiant blue. Bloody hell, I look like a bloody, flaming shish kebab. She crumpled to the floor in a glowing heap.

Daggers of energy stabbed her eyes. She rubbed at them, moaning. Greasy nausea roiled in her stomach, and a prickly tingle rushed through her blood. Her hair crackled and snapped close to her ears. She had to get up, but her arms wobbled as she pushed herself from the floor. She fell back, her body shaking with tremors.

She took a deep breath and gave it another shot. This time she succeeded. She raked back her hair with unsteady hands.

What in the world had just happened?

Inanimate objects coming to life and climbing out of the toilet was one thing, but this she could not handle. Other happenings could just find some other place to happen.

She drew in a deep breath and exhaled. Slowly. Shakily.

So where in hell was Prince Charming when she needed him?