Dangerous Magic by Sullivan Clarke

exists would be a lie."
    He struck her then with such force that she collapsed and would have hit the ground were it not for the men holding her. With a cry of pure rage, Colin hurled himself at the preacher so violently that he broke the grip on the men holding him back. But he was restrained again before he could reach his target and the two men - now inches apart this time - regarded each other once more.
    "Note," he said to the crowd, "the effects of a bewitched man. "With but a look this little temptress has enticed him to steal for her, to assist her in escaping the just questions of a soldier of Christ." He looked at Colin in disgust.
    "Take him from my sight."
    Colin made to struggle but was subdued and hauled away, but not before looking over his shoulder at Lark, whose limp form was still slumped between the two men who held her. Fordham was approaching her again, and upon reaching her undid the clasp of her cloak and watched as the heavy fabric slid to the ground. Underneath she was dressed in a simple country dress, the bodice cinched tightly enough to accentuate the curves of her waist. Above the neckline, the creamy swell of her breasts flared enticingly before his eyes. Lark moaned, still dazed from the blow the preacher had given her. Reaching out a finger, he tilted her chin until she was looking at him. As he did, he noted dispassionately the purple bruise blooming across her cheek from where he'd struck her.
    "It is my feeling that this is a powerful witch," he said to the crowd of men, who began to murmur to one another.
    "It is not safe for any of you to deal with her. Only a man of God, one strong enough to resist temptation should expose himself to such a creature."
    With one motion he swept Lark into his arms. The men moved back as he did, clearing the way. "I shall bear her back to the church now and extract what I predict will be a full confession of allegiance to the devil," he said. "I ask for your patience. And your prayers."
    Somewhere, through her fog, Lark felt the sensation of being lifted and heard the words he had spoken.
    "It's a dream," she said. "It must be a dream. But even as she gave in to the darkness once more she knew it was real, and dreaded when she would next be forced to open her eyes."

     

Chapter Seven

    Lark Willoughby opened her eyes and winced slightly at her first view of light. Dim though it was, it made her head pound and she blinked hard, willing herself to focus. The light was coming from several dripping candles sitting in sconces affixed to a dark, stone wall. As her eyes adjusted, Lark perceived the outline of a bookshelf stuffed with dusty, leather-bound volumes and a low table up on which sat more books and a quill pen and inkwell. And then movement from the corner caught her attention and she saw him - the man whose black garb and cloak had made him blend in until this moment. Now he stepped forward, his pale face glowing in the light above the cross that hung just below his collar. The expression on it was not kind, but stern and judgmental. Reverend Fervor's lip curled in a slight sneer, and Lark was instantly reminded of how the snarling wolf in her dream had lifted it lip in a similar fashion. A feeling of panic surged through her and she made to flee, but realized as she did that she could not move; her hands and feet were bound to the chair upon which she sat.
    "Well, well, well." Reverend Fervor crossed his arms slowly and began walking around her, his eyes locking with hers once he'd come full circle. "Lark Willoughby, the village witch." He paused. "There's no need to deny it."
    "I never intended to." She glared at him, defiant and he rushed forward, gripping her arms as his face hovered just inches from hers.
    "So you admit you are the devil's consort?" he snarled.
    "I never said that," Lark replied coldly. "I simply admitted to being a witch, although that is the name you would attach to what I do. I consider myself a healer. As for which of us is the