The Wizard’s Shield

Chapter 3-1

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Darkness surrounded her. Where was she? The

material pressing against her felt softer than she was used to, and

the air smelled different. An odd, distant rumble waxed and waned

rhythmically. She tried to lift her head, but nothing happened.

Arms and fingers didn’t budge. Toes refused to wiggle; knees

wouldn’t bend; hips wouldn’t roll. Nothing seemed to work. Panic

formed a hard knot in her chest.

“Where am I?” The question came out as a raw

squeak, but at least her voice functioned. “What’s going on? What’s

wrong with me?”

No answer came. As her eyes adjusted to the

darkness, she began to discern shapes, the outline of a door and

the bulk of a chest of drawers. Pale streaks of light stippled the

wall opposite the bed, suggesting that a window somewhere off to

her left admitted slices of moonlight between the slats in closed

blinds.

She could move her eyes enough to look around

the room, but no other part of her responded. There’d been an

accident with the car earlier. Had she been paralyzed by it? She

remembered moving afterward, but maybe something else had happened

later, after she’d blacked out? Another wave of panic speared

through her.

It only lasted a moment. She could feel

sheets beneath and above her. She vaguely remembered the hospital,

too—nurses and a doctor poking at her, prodding her to move this

way and that, asking lots of questions. They gave her a shot for

pain, took X-rays, and after a while they said nothing was broken,

and she could go. Memory grew fuzzy after that, probably due to the

pain medication. A man—Michael—escorted her to a car, no, a pickup

truck, and helped her in. After that, nothing until now. She must

have fallen asleep.

But now she couldn’t move, though she could

feel the bed covers against her flesh. She didn’t feel any obvious

restraints.

It had to be magic. She reached out and found

it easily enough. Air magic again. It smelled like sandalwood and

sat just heavily enough to prevent her from moving, but not enough

to interfere with her breathing or the flow of blood through her

body. It wasn’t even a very strong spell. The man who’d set it knew

she could find it and break it if she wanted to.

It comforted her in a weird, strange way. Did

he know the scent was a favorite of hers? She couldn’t remember. It

felt almost like Michael’s arms around her, holding her in a

protective embrace. Which was wrong, all wrong. He’d tried to force

her off the island, maybe even tried to kill her.

This magic still felt pleasantly cozy.

Ilene slid off into sleep again.

* * * * *

“Miss McConnell?”

The voice called a couple more times, forcing

her to open her eyes and face the world. Sunlight poured into the

room. Ilene squinted to see someone at the window, opening the

blinds.

“How are you feeling this morning?” the woman

asked with annoying cheerfulness. “Any headache? Other aches and

pains?”

Was she a nurse? She had that sort of

professional perkiness. At least she didn’t ask how “we” were

feeling. “Don’t know yet,” Ilene muttered. “Can’t move.”

“I’ll get Michael. He said you might not be

able to.” The woman crossed the room to the door.

Memory filtered back slowly through the

morning fog in her brain. “Never mind. I can take care of it

myself.” She was talking to an empty room. The woman had already

gone

Her head felt fuzzy, making it hard to think.

She wasn’t a morning person anyway, and that was compounded by the

after-effects of pain medication. Ilene probed for the magic

holding her in place and found it. A simple wind spell, just clumps

of thickened air, pressed down on her enough to resist movement. It

didn’t take much concentration to unwind it and disperse the excess

air, although she did miss its sandalwood scent.

She pushed herself upright and immediately

fell back onto the bed with a groan. Every muscle in her body

protested the movement. A deeper ache stabbed at her ribs. The door

opened while she gasped and tried to recover her breath without

inhaling too deeply.

“I suspected you’d be up before I got

here.”

She rolled over just far enough to get a look

at him.

The general description hadn’t changed. Six

feet tall, slim—although his shoulders had broadened, and his arms

and chest looked more substantial now—curly black hair, medium skin

that tanned readily, and the stunning blue eyes.

Michael Morgan had been an attractive boy.

Twelve years had improved his looks, refining the lines of

cheekbones and jaw to something leaner, tougher, and more graceful,

still dominated by those spectacular eyes.

But time and events had wrought even more

startling changes in other, less happy ways. They’d hardened him,

putting tense lines beside sternly controlled eyes and mouth. The

boy she’d known all those years ago had smiled a lot and radiated a

warm, lively enthusiasm.

If that boy still existed, he was locked away

deep inside a man whose face showed little more than controlled

reserve. Only hints of tightly leashed emotions and something

darker—old anger and pain—leaked past it. He looked like he hadn’t

smiled in years and might have forgotten how to do it.

A prickling of sympathy lanced at her heart

until she remembered why she’d come to the island. When the Council

representatives had told her what he’d done, she hadn’t wanted to

believe it, but now she wondered. Had he really turned into a man

who could commit murder?

Despite it all, just seeing him again roused

something deep inside her. She’d thought the flames between them

long since extinguished, but it seemed a tiny spark might have

survived. She couldn’t let him know that, couldn’t let it

matter.

“Why did you restrain me?” she asked.

Nothing moved in his expression; no twitch or

blink offered a clue to how he felt about her being there. “You

have bruised ribs. I didn’t want you to hurt yourself by moving

suddenly without realizing.” He paused a second. “I should have

known it would be wasted effort.” The bitterness in the words

stabbed at her heart again. He didn’t sound like the Michael Morgan

she’d once known. The bleakness echoed the cold, shadowed

expression in his eyes.

“I always was pretty headstrong. Dad never

was too successful at curbing it,” she admitted, hoping it would

soften his expression. It didn’t. Neither did the involuntary gasp

she let out when she tried to sit up again.

It did move him to come to her side and

adjust a pillow, then put an arm around her shoulders to help her

move.

A tingling awareness heated her skin where he

touched, even through the thin cotton of the nightgown. It startled

her. After his betrayal, and all the years since she’d last seen

him, it shouldn’t be happening. Nothing remained between them. That

treacherous little spark was surely just an emotional reflex.

Her body hadn’t forgotten. No other man had

made her feel the things that happened when he touched her. There

had been enough others—in college and after—as she’d tried to bury

the past, to ease the pain of his betrayal by finding someone who’d

make her forget him. It hadn’t happened. She hated this and hated

him for rousing it.

Fingering the soft cotton of the nightgown,

she asked, “How did I…? I don’t remember much after the

hospital.”

One corner of his lips crooked, but if that

was amusement showing, it was a wry and ironic sort. “Mrs. Wendall

helps out with the house and the cooking. She put you to bed. I

think the nightgown belonged to her daughter.”

“I’m in…your house?”

“I called around, but you didn’t seem to have

a reservation anywhere on the island.”

“I’m at a hotel up the road on highway

17.”

“Why were you coming to the island?” Direct

and to the point. Michael used to tease a lot and enjoy playful

word games.

“I don’t suppose you’d believe I’m on

vacation.”

“The coincidence seems stretched.”

Ilene decided to go direct herself. “Why did

you try to stop me from getting here?”

His eyebrows crooked slightly upward in

surprise. “I didn’t.” She remembered that expression all too well,

though she couldn’t remember it ever seeming so studied or

deliberate.

“That was magic slammed into my car as I got

off the bridge.” Irritation made the words come out sharper than

she expected.

“Is that why you were all over the road? I

wondered if you’d taken up drinking.”

“You know what happened. I smelled your

warding magic on the bridge. I didn’t realize it would come with

more active discouragement. Do you greet all your guests with such

enthusiasm or just all wizards? Or do you make a special effort for

long-lost lovers?”

He stiffened. His expression hardened into

even sterner remoteness. For a moment he remained very still, just

staring at her. Then he blinked, drew a breath, and relaxed enough

to say, “Lover seems an exaggeration as well. Teenage crush,

perhaps?”

“It was more than that, and you know it. But

it’s in the past. Why did you want to keep me from coming onto the

island?”

“Why should I want you here, Ilene?” he

asked. “But then again, why would it matter so much that I’d try to

keep you away?”

And why did that cause a funny clenching in

her stomach? She knew he wouldn’t want her here. “I’d like to know

that myself. The wind didn’t happen by itself. I couldn’t read your

signature on it, but… If you didn’t do it, then who did? There’s

another wizard on the island?”

“I think I’d know if there was.”

“I think so, too. And I caught a hint of

another scent and saw other colors. You know who it is?”

He inclined his head in a wry nod. “I know

there’s another one now. I can’t help but wonder why.”

She watched his eyes, wondering about his

evasive answers and carefully controlled expression. She could

sense the power that hung around him, the characteristic aroma of

Michael she remembered from all those years ago. He’d been a strong

mage then, but if what she’d heard was true, he’d become even more

dangerously powerful since. The aura around him tended to confirm

it. His evasiveness suggested some of the other stories she’d heard

about him might be true, too.

“Why don’t you want to answer my questions?”

she asked.

“Neither of us wants to give away much

information.” His lips curved into a bitter half-frown. “Strange,

isn’t it, Ilene? When you consider that we used to tell each other

everything.”

She didn’t want to delve into those memories.

Everything about him was a painful reminder of a time she’d tried

desperately to forget.

A knock at the door and a creak as it opened

saved her the necessity of answering, a good thing since she was

starting to feel out of her depth. The muzziness left by the pain

medication and a long sleep still fogged her brain.

Mrs. Wendall entered the room bearing a tray.

She smiled at Ilene and beamed at her employer. “Can you eat some

breakfast, Miss McConnell?” she asked.

The heavenly aroma of coffee already had her

trying to sit up straighter. Michael again lent a hand to help her,

provoking the maddening tingles where he touched.

A swirl of warm air raced down her arm from

shoulder to wrist, just brushing over the skin. Small hairs stood

up along its path. Her blood heated and skin sparked with a series

of tiny shocks where it touched. Michael’s magic, damn him. He was

teasing her, knowing she couldn’t say anything about it in the

housekeeper’s presence.

“I’ll leave you to eat your breakfast in

peace,” he said. Nothing in his expression acknowledged what he’d

just done. “We’ll talk more in a little while.”

“Michael?” she called as he reached the

door.

He stopped and turned back, raising an

inquiring eyebrow.

“What happened to my car?”

“I arranged for it to be towed to a place I

trust for repairs. They should call me today with an estimate.”

“Thank you. Is it salvageable?”

He shrugged, the action highlighting the

breadth of his shoulders. “I didn’t get a good look at it. I was

more concerned with how damaged you were.”

Ilene sighed as she considered what the cost

of a new car would do to her budget. She’d have to call her

insurance company and rent another one. “Did you see my purse?”

“Didn’t look for it. I suppose it’s still in

the car. I’ll ask Darren to check. Enjoy your breakfast.” He turned

and left the room.

Mrs. Wendall set the tray on a small table

near the bed. “Is there anything else I can get you?” the woman

asked as she turned to go.

Ilene surveyed the tray. Eggs and bacon,

toast, jars of fruit preserves, a serving-sized box of cereal, a

pitcher of cream, packets of sugar, a carafe of coffee, and another

she assumed was hot water since it rested beside a stack of

teabags.