Spellbound - Cara Lynn Shultz [50]
“But how will I know my soul’s mate?” Archer asked the hag.
She said signs would be put in place, signs that would suffice for a clever man and maiden. These signs would be no match for their attraction, which would be a great force on its own.
But Archer desired something definite—that could not be disputed. He had to know the woman he held was, indeed, Gloriana. The hag agreed to mark Archer’s mate with a symbol—his family’s crest—as it appeared now, with a weeping rose to honor his fallen, murdered love.
“Happy are you now?” she croaked. “You can not dispute the attraction when she’s wearing this mark. Even a fool would recognize his soul’s mate.”
Pride still colored Archer’s demands, so he demanded of the hag that his soul find rest in a descendant—one from his own proud bloodline. He should have a brilliant mind, the strength of ten men and be more handsome than any lord, with enviable wealth. For Gloriana, he begged speed, knowing his clever bride would have escaped the mercenaries had she been of fair health.
“Are these all your conditions?” The hag cackled. “Nothing more?”
Archer agreed to the contract, and the hag went to work. The simmering cauldron in the fireplace suddenly burst forth with blue flames, and the sinister black liquid inside started to bubble.
She held Gloriana’s love poem in her withered, leathery hand.
“Of this contract we do speak
Written with a hand that now lies cold
Of the dark lord we do seek
Lost true love’s tender hold.”
Archer watched as the fragile parchment in the hag’s hand crumbled to ash, blue flames shooting from her palm. She threw the ash into the cauldron, and it boiled angrily.
The hag withdrew a dagger and, taking the medallion from Archer, scraped the blade three times across the back of the medallion. She collected the scraps of metal and tossed them into her cauldron, which hissed and smoked.
Grabbing Archer’s hand, the hag cackled again, holding the dagger high before dragging the jagged blade across Archer’s palm, squeezing his hand to force the blood out. It spilled into the cauldron, and the liquid swirled and bubbled. Using a spoon carved from bone, the hag scooped the blue-black serum into a curved gray-white bowl. Archer reeled at the sight, fearing the bowl had been carved from a skull. The hag handed the potion to Archer, instructing him to drink the bitter, vile liquid. As he choked down the thick serum, the witch began chanting:
“Keep their souls on earth bound
Finding their way with this crest’s face
And whence each other they have found
Death comes after their destined embrace.”
“Death? What magick is this? A lifetime is what I require!” Archer shouted. The hag cackled, and her wrinkled face began to smooth. The hair on her chin withered, and her milky eye turned clear as both eyes began to glow yellow. The hag stood up straight, and transformed into a young man. His catlike beauty peered out from the cloak, which began to shimmer as if it were on fire. Archer realized the witch was, indeed, a true agent of the devil.
“You might have thought of that before damning your true love’s soul from entering Heaven,” the feline man said, grinning and baring a row of sharp, fanglike teeth. “Perhaps her soul should have been of more concern than your own beauty or wealth. But don’t worry, you selfish fool, you’ll reunite with her again. And again. She’ll always be wearing your precious crest. And you’ll know the fresh pain of her loss for all eternity.”
“No! I pray of thee, say lifetime. Give us a lifetime together!” Archer screamed, falling to his knees. The man laughed at Archer’s torment, as Archer begged him to change or undo the spell. But it was too late. He had damned his and Gloriana’s souls to an eternity of pain, a never-ending cycle of reunion, romance and then tragedy, as their love would be cut short by her death. They