insignificant hint of how the world had changed. Damon was an educated man, a resourceful man. But even he understood that a man out of time would be vulnerable in ways he might not adequately anticipate.
Still, he couldn’t remain here any longer. Rogan’s castle brimmed with dark, evil magic. Questions ranging from the deep and philosophical to the shallow and mundane coursed through his mind. Were his brothers still alive as was he? Had they found his sister? Vanquished Rogan? There was no ocean near Valoren, so he knew the castle no longer existed there. How did one move a castle? And was he now in England? He’d heard the strangers speak as they milled beneath his portrait prison. They did not sound like any of his countrymen, but they spoke the mother tongue. At least, a bastardization of the language. Had his country changed so much over the years?
He pressed down on the latch.
Nothing happened.
He tugged and pulled, bracing his arm on the doorjamb to create leverage. He buoyed all his strength against the lock, straining until sweat broke out on his brow.
From across the hall, the cat hissed.
With a curse, Damon stopped. Apparently, the witch on the landing had released him only so far. What magic did she brew that kept him entrapped?
He crossed the hall in seconds, then took the stairs three at a time, catching her as she raised herself on her arms and groaned.
A sensual sound, even when laced with pain, “Move slowly, my dear,” he said. “You’ve suffered a great shock.”
She defied him instantly, spinning to face him with a decided bounce on her backside.
A rather lovely backside, truth be told.
“Who are you?” She winced as she smoothed her hand over the back of her head. “Or should I ask, what are you?”
She slid her palm over her forehead, squinting beneath her fingers despite the dim light on the landing. Damon glanced at the torches, unlit for all these centuries. He wondered if there was a way to light them when, suddenly, they flamed to life.
Interesting.
“I could ask you the same question,” he said, extending his hand to her.
She looked at him defiantly, her expression crisp with suspicion.
“I mean you no harm,” he emphasized.
“Then explain the knot on the back of my head.”
“A consequence of the dark magic imbued in these castle walls, I suspect.”
“Your magic?” she asked.
He sniffed derisively. “Hardly. I wouldn’t have trapped myself here, would I?”
Though her wary expression did not falter, she accepted his help in standing. Her hand was small in his, but her intrepid comportment compensated for her lack of size. The minute she regained her balance, she yanked her hand from his and stepped back to establish distance.
“I apologize, my lady. As for what I am, I cannot yet say. As to who, I am Damon Forsyth.”
She popped the tie holding her hair in place, releasing the red strands in thick, shiny waves. She sighed. Apparently loosening her hair alleviated some of the pain in her head. Her jaw relaxed, but only slightly.
“So, Damon Forsyth, are you dead?”
Damon glanced down at his body, examining the coarse texture of his breeches and the slick leather of his boots. “I do not believe so, madam. Quite frankly, I’ve not felt this alive for centuries.”
“Then what are you?”
“I’m quite certain I do not yet know. Previously, I was the son of John Forsyth, a British baron and governor of a Gypsy colony in a land called—”
“Valoren?”
Damon gaped. “You know this place?”
She shook her head. “No, I don’t know it at all. Just the name. And you’re not in Kansas anymore, Sir Damon. Then again, neither am I.”
Wavering on her feet, she reached out to find her balance. Luckily, Damon was the nearest solid object. Her hand gripped his powerfully, and for a split second he imagined those same fingers seizing his naked shoulders or raking across his back.
He cleared his throat and shook the bawdy image from his mind.
Rebecca Hamilton, Conner Kressley