Magical Memories Read online

  Mrs. Killcullen talked incessantly as they made their choices and Michael smiled when he noticed that Tempest sampled most of their selections. She looked like a kid having a grand time in a candy shop and it pleased him to watch her.

  He drifted around the shop, selecting a peppermint stick, not having had one since he was a kid, and admiring the collection of bears when he suddenly felt compelled to turn around and walk toward the window.

  He looked out at the light rain drizzling against the large window, and saw the mysterious man standing across the street staring at the sweetshop. He wore a raincoat, no hat and no umbrella, and he simply stood there staring.

  Michael stared back. His eyes were cold, bitter cold, devoid of emotion, and yet Michael could not glance away. He felt compelled to keep eye contact with the man, as if he was in a contest of wills in which he intended to be the victor.

  Michael began to feel warm and that warmth grew and radiated throughout his body, flooding him with a surge of energy so powerful he felt as if he was invincible.

  That’s when the thunder roared and a shaft of lightning struck the ground near the man.

  Michael didn’t blink an eye and the man simply smiled, turned and walked away.

  Michael recalled the words he had read: Witches can call lightning down.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Michael drove home with too many haunting questions in his mind. Life had suddenly turned crazy for him. Why would he think that witches could call down lightning? And why did he even believe witches existed at all? Was he going completely insane? And yet the question haunted him, and he couldn’t make sense of it.

  “Is something troubling you, Michael?” Tempest asked. She had seen him approach the window, had seen the flash of lightning and had wondered.

  He didn’t take his eyes off the road. The drizzle had turned to a downpour and visibility was poor. “Do you believe witches exist? I mean real witches, the kind that can perform real magic.”

  “What is real magic?”

  “You tell me,” he said seriously.

  “Why would I know?”

  “Witchcraft is part of your heritage. I can’t believe that some of that knowledge wasn’t passed down from generation to generation. Stories at least.”

  “But how does one determine the difference between fact and fiction?”

  He turned a quick glance on her. “You mean like the Ancient One. Was she real or wasn’t she?”

  “Tales, myths, legends. Are they true or simply fables created to entertain or to frighten?”

  “Or are these fables based on a thread of fact that was woven into a complete fabrication?”

  “A debatable issue that has been argued for many years.”

  He stole another glance. “True, but witchcraft is being practiced today.”

  “But in its original form? Or has the passage of time and modern society altered it to accommodate its own ideals and beliefs?”

  “Which returns us to the question what is real magic?”

  “Magic is what you believe.”

  “Back to if I believe, and then I can do anything—like fly.”

  “If you believe strongly enough, why would you think you couldn’t?”

  “Reality and aerodynamics.”

  She smiled. “The Wright brothers believed they could fly and obviously conquered both your objections.”

  He returned her smile. “Good answer, but that’s solid reasoning and determination. Mortal qualities not usually associated with witches.”

  “Belief is associated with both mortals and witches. It’s just that a witch’s power to believe far exceeds a mortal’s. She accepts her inherent abilities without qualms, embraces her heritage and practices her remarkable skills daily. She never once doubts.”

  “And that’s a witch’s magic?” He seemed disappointed by her explanation.

  Tempest remained patient. “It is the essence of magic, the very core of its existence.”

  “You sound so sure of such beliefs. Do you practice magic?”

  “To a degree everyone does in one way or another.”

  Michael continued searching for answers. “But can anyone call down lightning, or is that a witch’s magic?”

  “According to myth, only a powerful witch can call down lightning, and—” she paused, causing him to glance at her. “There really would be no reason to do so except perhaps because of anger or to demonstrate power.”

  “To prove one’s ability, is what you’re saying.”

  “Proving one’s abilities would be more of a mortal trait, and...”

  “And?” he asked, waiting anxiously for her to finish and not understanding her reluctance.

  She hesitated. “A warlock trait.”

  He raked his hand through his hair in frustration. “Witches, warlocks, Ancient Ones. Next thing you know I’ll be seeing fairies.”

  Tempest had to laugh. “Well, this is a mystical, magical land.”

  He turned a smile on her. “And magic is simply believing.”

  “Now you’re getting the hang of it.”

  He pulled up to the house and shut off the motor. He leaned over toward her. “Then, my dear Tempest, I believe I’m going to kiss you.”

  She laughed softly, her lips reaching for his. “I believe, too.”

  They kissed softly, testing and tasting each other until their emotions took control and Michael reached out to slip his hand around her neck and draw her closer. Their kiss turned to passion and their passion to impatience.

  “Inside,” Michael ordered abruptly.

  Tempest didn’t think, she merely responded, running from the car to the front door and fumbling in her purse for her keys.

  Michael rushed up behind her, grabbing her around the waist and raining kisses along the back of her neck. She leaned into him, enjoying the play of intimacy they shared and wishing it would never end.

  When her fingers fumbled with the keys, he laughed and grabbed them from her hand to insert into the lock. “I don’t want to wait forever,” he whispered with a laugh in her ear.

  In wanton playfulness, he nibbled down the side of her neck as he worked the door open.

  He walked her along with him into the cottage and slipped her out of her coat and himself out of his jacket. With firm hands around her waist he directed her into the living room and lowered her to the couch. He followed her down.

  Time stood still for Tempest and magic took over.

  Michael’s magic.

  He kissed her long and easy, fast and hard, gently and lovingly.

  And that was all he did. Kiss her.

  Tempest lost herself in the taste of him. It had been so long, and she had always been on guard, but with Michael she didn’t feel the need to defend—only to surrender. And she was dangerously close to completely surrendering to this man who appeared to be stealing her heart.

  The telephone rang and Tempest knew it was her sister calling. Had Sarina sensed her complete surrender and wished to protect her? But then, who was she surrendering to? Michael or Marcus?

  Michael moved off her reluctantly and as she hurried into the kitchen to answer the phone he called after her. “We will finish this.”

  She shivered as she answered the phone, recalling those very same words that were said to her hundreds of years ago.

  “Are you all right?” Sarina asked before Tempest could issue a greeting.

  Tempest was honest. “I’m not sure.”

  “Then come visit us, and do bring Michael. He is still there, isn’t he?”

  “You know he is, Sarina, or you wouldn’t have called.”

  “I thought he was, but my pregnancy has been playing havoc with my abilities and I worried I could have been wrong,” she admitted with concern.

  “You are well and so is the child, so do not worry,” Tempest reassured her.

  “I worry about you; please come visit.”

  Tempest could plainly hear her concern. “Right now would not be a good
time and right now is no time for you to be worrying.”

  “I worry about everything,” she admitted tearfully.

  Tempest laughed, which caused Sarina to cry. That brought Dagon to the phone.

  “Why is she upset,” he demanded to know.

  “Because she is carrying your son,” Tempest said with laughter still evident in her voice.

  He grew annoyed. “And you find this funny?”

  She heard Sarina crying softly in the background and insisting that Dagon return the phone to her.

  “No, I am speaking to your sister and she will explain herself.”

  Tempest laughed again. “Is that a demand or a request?”

  He remained agitated. “A demand, if it must be.”

  Tempest chose to be patient. “Then I will attempt to respond to your demand and alleviate your worry.”

  Dagon’s tone changed considerably. “I would appreciate your help.”

  Tempest explained. “Sarina is reacting to her pregnancy the exact way our mother responded to hers. She was emotional the entire time she carried Sarina and she all but drove Father out of his mind.”

  “But he survived, right?” Dagon asked hopefully.

  “And was a better man for it,” Tempest said with a laugh.

  That brought a laugh from Dagon, a much relieved laugh. “If you were here I would kiss you. You have just saved me endless worry.”

  Sarina continued to sob softly in the background.

  Dagon interpreted. “Your sister insists that you visit with us and you’re to bring that mortal—Michael, if I recall his name correctly—with you.”

  “Perhaps in a week or two.”

  “She says you are to come now.” Dagon chuckled.

  “Do I need to respond to that, Dagon?”

  “I never once thought you would. You will visit when you visit.”

  “Thank you,” Tempest said most graciously.

  “No, thank you. Now I must go and take care of your tearful sister.”

  “And how do you intend to do that?” Tempest asked, a protective tone to her query.

  “With much love and patience. See you soon.” And with a click he was gone.

  Tempest smiled at the phone. She was pleased and so very relieved that Sarina had found Dagon to love and be loved.

  They were perfect for each other.

  And she was beginning to think that Michael was perfect for her. That the life he had lived had taught him many things and instilled qualities in him that had been lacking in Marcus.

  At least, that was what she wanted to believe.

  Magic.

  If she believed strongly enough, would it be so? Would Michael have taught Marcus what he needed to know to emerge a powerful witch instead of a dreaded warlock?

  She had to believe in Michael with all her heart and soul, but then that would be easy, since she loved him with all her heart and soul.

  She rested her head against the phone on the wall. Why hadn’t she realized this sooner? Why hadn’t she prepared better? But then who can prepare themselves for falling in love? It strikes without warning and leaves one numb and vulnerable. Nothing makes sense, nor at times does one want it to.

  “Are you all right?” Michael asked, coming up behind her and slipping his arm around her waist.

  She felt his concern so deep and pure, so honest, and she leaned back against him. “I’m fine.” And she was. He was here with her now—Michael, not Marcus—and she would love and help him all she could.

  “I was thinking,” he whispered in her ear.

  “About what?” she whispered back.

  He gave a short laugh. “About chocolate.”

  She remembered then. “We left all the packages in the car.”

  “I retrieved them while you were on the phone. The chocolate awaits us in the living room.”

  “You’re tempting me,” she teased.

  “Indulge,” he said softly.

  Another familiar remark from the past that Tempest chose to ignore. She turned, took his hand and hurried off with him to do as he suggested.

  o0o

  The hour was late and Michael was fighting sleep, but he was fast losing the battle. He reluctantly closed the book and placed it on the small table beside his bed.

  He wasn’t sure what was real anymore or myth. He had been digesting information for several weeks now. Some things made sense and others seemed impossible to believe, and yet...

  He wanted to believe.

  Why did he want to believe in the power of a myth?

  His eyes drifted shut as he continued to fight sleep, knowing he would dream, but not wanting to.

  The long, wooden table was brimming with a variety of food and sweets, the rich scents tempting the senses. It was a display for gluttony at its finest.

  “Indulge,” the man said on a whisper to the fiery-haired beauty.

  She looked the delicious and abundant fare over and slowly shook her head.

  He picked up a sugar-covered red grape and offered it to her. “Just a taste?”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “What does that matter?” He slowly licked at the sugar on the grape. “It tastes good, sweet and”—he paused and bit into the fat grape, a drop of juice catching on his chin—”succulent.”

  “I am not hungry,” she repeated.

  “Indulge anyway,” he said, offering her the other half of the grape. “It feels good come and taste.”

  She held her hand up at his approach. “Don’t test me.”

  “I am not testing, sweet. I’m tempting.” He finished the grape and wiped away the drop of juice, licking it from his finger.

  She shook her head, her tolerance fading. “You think to tempt me with this display of gluttony?”

  “I offer you a feast.”

  “You offer me famine.”

  His voice filled with anger. “You speak in riddles.”

  “That you should understand.”

  “Do not play teacher with me,” he demanded.

  “Then do not act like a pupil.”

  He threw his hands up wide, causing thunder to crack loudly outside the thick stone walls of the castle. “You tempt my patience.”

  Her smile purposely teased. “When did you learn patience?”

  He was quick to respond. “The day I decided you would share my bed.”

  They stood face-to-face, he having moved rapidly to her side in an attempt to intimidate. She raised a hand to his handsome face. “Patience takes practice. I shall see that you have much of it.”

  His arm went around her slim waist. “And I will continue to tempt you to indulge, to taste the forbidden, and to surrender.”

  He kissed her softly, their lips barely touching, a faint teasing kiss that tempted her senses. When he felt her shiver he brushed a rough kiss across her lips and then took complete command. They were soon locked in an embrace and between kisses he urged her to indulge her desires and taste full of life.

  Indulge. Indulge. Indulge.

  Michael twisted and turned, mumbling the word over and over and over in his sleep.

  Tempest, however, had bolted up in bed, the distinct taste of Marcus on her lips. His power was growing and he wanted her to know it.

  o0o

  Michael set to work over the next few days attending to the minor repairs that the cottage needed. There weren’t many, and he thought to take his time with them, giving him more time with Tempest. But the more he thought about it the more he decided that perhaps his decision wasn’t a wise one.

  He foolishly had fallen in love with Tempest. It was a crazy thought, but then love was none too sane. She fascinated him in more ways than one. Sure, she was beautiful, but beautiful women were a dime a dozen. Her wealth made little difference to him. He could live in this small cottage with her for the rest of his days, work at a menial job and be content. It was sharing everyday life with her that was so important, so necessary to him.

  They could talk endlessly and n
ever grow bored and they could share silence and never feel awkward. He loved the feel of her, the taste of her, and the scent of her. She was familiar to him in all ways and he felt he had come home when he held her in his arms.

  The one major obstacle appeared to be an old love in her life she simply could not forget. He supposed she could forget him, given time, and perhaps if he made love to her he could make her forget him.

  But being honest with himself he knew that he wanted her to love him for himself and not for any other reason, because his love was the only real and solid thing he had to offer her.

  The more he worked the more he thought and the more he decided that by prolonging his departure he prolonged the inevitable disappointment and hurt that was certain to follow.

  With that thought weighing heavily on his mind, he made a decision. He would leave tomorrow and spare them both the pain.

  He hesitated about approaching her with the news, or perhaps it was his own reluctance to follow through with his decision that made him delay speaking with her.

  It was late afternoon when he finished the last of the repair work and returned the tools to their cabinet. He had worked slowly, cleaned up slowly and now he walked slowly to the kitchen where he knew Tempest would be busy preparing the evening meal.

  As usual, the kitchen smelled delicious, and he was certain he sniffed pot roast, which meant mashed potatoes and gravy. His mouth was already watering. Then there was the sight of her in a long, pale-blue knit dress with a deep purple and blue fringed shawl draped around her waist and dark purple socks on her feet. Her hair was piled on her head though several strands fell free along her neck and down over her cheeks, rosy from cooking over the hot stove.

  “Supper will be ready in thirty minutes if you want to wash up first,” she said with a smile.

  He nodded. “I’ll take a shower.”

  She stopped snapping string beans and stared at him. “Is something wrong?”

  He plunged right in afraid he’d lose his courage. “I’ve decided that since the repair work is finished and I’m healed that I shouldn’t impose on you any longer, so I’ll be leaving early tomorrow morning.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Tempest was struck speechless, her heart beating wildly and her lungs fighting for air.