Table Of ContentRELIC 1
RELIC
By
Ellen Ashe
Celia Ashley
Annalee Blysse
Tracy L. Ranson
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Merlin’s Eye © copyright January 2006, Ellen Ashe
Sixth Day of the Moon © copyright January 2006, Celia Ashley
Lord of the Night © copyright January 2006, Annalee Blysse
Curse of the Cat’s Paw © copyright January 2006, Tracy L. Ranson
Cover art by Eliza Black, © copyright January 2006
ISBN 1-58608-808-4
New Concepts Publishing
Lake Park, GA 31636
www.newconceptspublishing.com
This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author’s
imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or
events is merely coincidence.
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MERLIN’S EYE
By
Ellen Ashe
Chapter One
“Is the purpose of your visit to the UK business or pleasure?”
Roger’s initial impulse was to flirt; the sight of a lovely woman did that to him.
He had learned over the years of traveling, however, that female customs’ officers took
their jobs very seriously, as though they had to prove the toughness displayed by male
counterparts. This officer was eye-catching with her peaches and cream complexion,
streaked blonde hair and rose-bud mouth. Yet she sat there with an aura of severity--no
make-up, no jewelry and a pair of black framed glasses propped on the bridge of her
nose. Still, he couldn’t resist flashing her a smile. “Business.”
She glanced from the document and then over the rim of the glasses to his face
without smiling. “And what is your business, Mr. Brinckworthe?”
To seek out and negotiate prices for ancient medieval manuscripts, either legally
or illicitly. “I buy and sell antiques.”
She scribbled something on a form. “How long will you visiting us?”
His smile broadened. Her tone was so abrupt. Young, attractive, and that pristine
uniform. It was a combination he had always found intriguing, and more than titillating.
“Two weeks.”
His passport was stamped. “Welcome to London.”
“Thank ya, darlin’.” She shifted her eyes to the next in the line as he took his
paperwork and briefcase. Professional. He liked that in a woman regardless of her
occupation.
And he breezed through customs without a hitch.
What was waiting for him threw cold water on his lingering fantasy. A tall, gaunt,
pasty complexioned man in a chauffeur’s uniform stood in front of the mulling crowd
holding a handwritten sign that read: “R. Brinckworthe.”
“Oh great,” he muttered under his breath. “She’s sent a driver.” Without
expecting it, he suddenly found himself in the clutches of a wealthy woman.
On previous trips to England, Roger had always stayed in a hotel, rented a car, sought
out antiquarian booksellers on his own terms, usually as a necessity because certain
sellers were operating within the shadows. Being a guest had made him slightly
uncomfortable but Victoria Elwell insisted. He concurred, only because her late father
had an infamous collection of occult manuscripts and documents, and she was disposing
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of the whole lot. So enticed at the prospect of owning pieces of the coveted collection,
Roger not only made an exception for dealing with a woman but being a house guest.
“I’m Roger Brinckworthe,” he said.
The chauffeur reached out to take the handle of the suitcase. “Follow me, please.”
Something akin to claustrophobia penetrated Roger’s skin. He prided his sixth-
sense when it came to identifying authentic rare books. Fakes were cleverly presented
and although he hadn’t come up against many, he had to be extremely wary of some
sellers, especially when so many of his transactions were clandestine. This feeling was
different though, almost eerie, like being lost in dank fog. He had to fight the urge to
snatch his suitcase and bolt back into the airport.
“How long will this take?” Roger asked, as the door to the Rolls Royce was opened for
him.
“Depends on the traffic, sir. Three, maybe four hours, sir.”
Roger sighed. Traveling had become a necessary evil.
Traffic in and around the airport was heavy. He flipped open his briefcase,
reviewing his scant notes on Victoria Elizabeth Elwell.
An heiress at twenty-four she was the only child of Edward Elwell IV. Educated
at Oxford she had procured a degree in Classical Literature and was proficient in both
Latin and Greek. As far as he could discover she had never traveled out of England,
which struck him as odd. Considering her academic interests he thought she would be at
least traveled. Elwell was a name deeply rooted in Devon’s history, lords and earls, iron
fists and stained swords. And unsubstantiated rumors of clandestine rituals and practicing
witchcraft....
To each his own.
Reading between the lines he suspected that Victoria could care less about
continuing the lineage. She was, not only unmarried, but selling off family heirlooms.
She had contacted him, via e-mail, with an invitation to view the home’s antiquated
library. The prospect of its valuable contents had gotten him rather excited. How she got
his name, however, and particularly Brinckworthe, which was the alias he used the least,
was a curiosity he’d question later.
All correspondence he printed, studying each sentence so often he had some
messages completely memorized. He thumbed through the papers, rereading one at
random. “Dear Mr. Brinckworthe: It has come to my attention that you are an
impassioned collector of ancient manuscripts. Please accept my invitation to personally
view my complete collection, ranging from Medieval to Renaissance, subjects inclusive
of medical, philosophy, religion, including the occult and Druidism …”
Druidism. This was what truly grabbed his interest. In fifteen years of buying and
selling rare pieces of literature not once had he come across anything documented by this
mysterious religion. He had written back to ask her for specifics but she had evaded an
answer, “an extensive collection touching on various aspects of religion and
philosophy....”
Mingled with the letters was an article he had discovered--a Roman perspective of
Druidism--Caesar documenting that druids from Gaul would attend the British schools
and sanctuaries. Obviously a religion with a high reputation, Roger mused, to attract the
attention of an Emperor. And the distrust. Resistance to an aggressive empire would do
that. History was open for interpretation. The Romans painted the Celtic Druids in a bad
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light and they, in turn, wrote nothing to defend themselves or their Gods.
Or, so he believed.
Roger closed the briefcase and stared numbly at the scenery, unable to
concentrate about anything. Once they hit the motorway the steady pace was lulling him
more and more into lethargy. A weighty sensation soon overtook him and he leaned back,
succumbing to fatigue.
“Is the purpose of your visit business or pleasure?”
They were the only two people in the airport. A hazy white light obscured a
limitless void that had been passport control. His gaze dropped to her exposed cleavage
and the outer edges of a black laced bra. She was smiling, hinting shamelessness, waiting
for his answer. Her arms slowly lifted as she reached behind her head, unfastening a
mass of hair from a tight bun. She shook her head. The cascading locks tumbled over the
front of her starched uniform.
“Pleasure.”
She pursed her lips. “I was hoping you’d say that.” Slowly she stood up.
His breath caught. A short tight fitting skirt barely covered her thighs. Black
stockings, held firmly in place by straps of a garter belt, stiletto heeled shoes, she turned,
glancing back at him, crooking her finger. “Follow me,” she purred.
“Is there a problem?” he asked.
“Yes,” she gushed, rolling the tip of her tongue under her top lip. “You lied to me
and naughty men need to be severely disciplined.”
The flush of arousal washed through his body. He swallowed a dry lump in his
throat, and followed her swaying hips, for what seemed an endless journey through
nothing but white light. One door--she stopped in front of it, quickly glancing over her
shoulder again to see if he was following. Her fingers wrapped around the handle and
she stroked it with her thumb. “Ready to be taught a lesson?”
“Oh, yeah,” he answered, his tone drenched to the excitement that coursed
through his groin.
She worked the handle with seductive glee. “Good boy,” she whispered. With a
sharp wrench the door flew open.
Across one wall was an immense bookcase, housing antique leather-bound
manuscripts. The scent of old leather filled his nostrils. He sucked in air. Fresh air. The
library had no walls. There was grass beneath his feet, and sunlight streaming from a
sunless sky.
She wiggled provocatively as he slid towards her, unconscious of motion,
drinking in the curves of her body, aching to lift the short skirt, to take the pleasures that
waited beneath. Her eyes flared. There was a snap, like a stinging spark. The next thing
he knew he was bound by the wrists, arms extended above his head, shoulders against the
trunk of one massive oak tree, and he was naked.
“Yes,” he hissed, shivering to anticipation. The how or why of the lapse of time
was insignificant compared to the lusts he wanted to be sated.
She reached her hand between his legs, stroking him as she had done the door
handle. Her mouth inches away from his she sighed. “Tell me, Mr. Brinckworthe, what
would give you more pleasure? Me, or my books?” Her grip tightened.
He sucked in a gasp, the quick slice of pain rippling through his groin.
“You,” he garbled. “I want you more.”
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Instantly she grabbed a fistful of his hair and pulled. “You lie, hunter.” A riding
crop was thrust under his chin. “You’re a thief and a scoundrel, aren’t you, Mr.
Brinckworthe?” Slow motion she trailed the leather tip down his chest.
He whimpered. “Yes. Yes, I am.” So abrupt with her authority. He loved
professionals and she was definitely a professional. Over his stomach, farther down it
went, and he shuffled slightly, spreading his legs.
“Tut-tut,” she said, denying him the sensation of the leather against his flesh.
He wrenched, the leather straps around his wrists tightened.
“You can’t have my books,” she scowled, teeth clenched behind snarled lips.
“But you can have me.” She moved directly in front of him, her breath hot against his
neck. “Is that acceptable, Mr. Brinckworthe?”
He thrust forward. But he was at her mercy. It was her decision whether or not he
could get inside. She had pitilessly worked him into a frenzy. “Yes, that’s acceptable.”
He was begging. Whatever it took. He’d do anything now. “Witch.”
She threw the crop to one side. It fell to the floor without making a sound. She
clasped the hem of her skirt and rotated her hips as she slowly hoisted the material. He
could barely control himself. A tingling was about to erupt. He felt dizzy.
The heat from her palm encased his erection. She inched closer to him, stroking,
squeezing. “Yes,” he droned, tipping his head back into the rough bark of the oak tree.
He sensed wet. Silken heat. The walls of a tight crevice swallowing his erection.
“Welcome to London.”
Roger’s eyes snapped open. His forehead and neck were bathed in sweat.
Frenziedly, as the dream had taken him too far, he winced with the uncontrollable wave
of bliss, and flushed with embarrassment. The driver, thankfully, was paying attention to
the road, not him. Roger blinked several times, darting glances out the window over the
rolling countryside.
He swore internally, shocked at the vividness of the dream. A wet dream, an event
that wasn’t supposed to happen to a man of his age, and certainly not during a nap in the
back of a car! Painfully aware of the discomfort in his trousers, he crossed his legs.
Flipping open the console under his elbow he was relieved to discover several small
bottles of Scotch. Shaken, he poured the contents into a crystal glass, and swallowed it in
one mouthful. It burned down his gullet but at least it had the desired effect. He calmed
even though the confusion remained.
“Where the hell did that come from?” he muttered under his breath.
The driver glanced at him through the rear view mirror. “Everything all right,
sir?” he asked without any intonation what-so-ever.
“Yeah,” Roger snapped in return. “How much longer?” He was unscrewing the
cap of another bottle.
The man’s waxen complexion pulled to a ghoulish smile. “Almost there now, sir.”
* * * *
Victoria Elwell tapped her fingernail on the smooth surface of her altar. The
image of her approaching guest dissolved under the ripples of water in the oak bowl. One
by one she blew out the candles, breathing deeply of the thin lines of smoke the swirled
from each extinguished wick.
The water had soiled, turned muddy and unusable. Carefully she reached into the
bowl to pull out her amulet, place it beside her bended knee, within the circle. Dipping
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her fingers into the water she sprinkled a few drops on her naked breast and disposed of
the rest by tipping it around her on the floor. “Water Goddess,” she whispered. “Renewal.
Cleansing. Blessed be.”
The green opal softly glowed. Saturated air caressed her, like a lover’s devout
attention. Her arousal was torturous, yet she relished the growing static of sexual energy.
Stifling her physical desires she closed her eyes, pressing her palms together to relieve
the temptation to touch herself, concentrating on accumulation. He would be a willing
participant. His lusts were deliciously primeval.
Victoria stood, the amulet dangling on its thin chain, swinging as a pendulum, one
that would turn back time.
Her most trusted confidant rose from the chair in the shadows. “Let me help you
with that,” she said, fastening the clasp behind Victoria’s neck. “You have chosen well,
Priestess?”
“Yes, Leena. Our guest has many interesting susceptibilities. He is going to be a
very valuable asset.”
The relic nestled between her breasts, a warming force against her flesh. Victoria
turned. The two women smiled knowingly to each other.
“I shall prepare then,” Leena said.
“Yes.” Victoria leaned, fluttering a feathery kiss on her servant’s lips. Energy
surged, eddying out from the amulet into her limbs.
“Do we have time to--?”
“No. I must focus all our energy on our quest. Wait for my word. I’ll call when I
need you.”
“Of course.” Leena bowed. “May the gods bless you and keep you, my Priestess.”
“And you, my faithful one. Blessed be.”
Chapter Two
On one side of the narrow road was the moor. The barren landscape dissolved
obliquely into the horizon. Sheep meandered carelessly along the edges as the Rolls
Royce slowed to a crawl. A stone wall prevented any visual of what lay beyond the other
side of the road. Considering the pace they were traveling, Roger guessed that this was
the boundary of the Elwell estate. His suspicions were confirmed when the vehicle swung
sharply to the right. Cast iron gates were open. On either side, perched on massive
pedestals, were identical stone Phoenixes, blindly watching the moor.
Arched over the entrance was an iron trellis. Elwell Manor. Ivy had snaked
through the latticing, obscuring most of the lettering.
Huge oak trees lined the drive. It took several minutes before the sprawling estate
loomed into view, appearing to Roger more like a fortress than a manor. Old world
opulence housing a treasure trove of antiquities. He imagined a library packed with
ancient manuscripts and he couldn’t help but wonder why the family heiress was selling
anything. Not that he particularly gave a damn. Her loss was his gain.
Still, he had the niggling feeling that Victoria Elwell was going to be a formable
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negotiator. Roger had money, but as they pulled up in front of the steps to the lavish
estate, his wealth suddenly seemed paltry in comparison.
He was grateful to finally be stationary, and took several steps around the
graveled courtyard to stretch his legs.
The chauffeur quickly retrieved Roger’s suitcase. “If you’d follow me, sir,” he
said, and started immediately towards the cracked granite stairway.
“Incredible,” Roger muttered, scanning the building’s architecture. Buttresses,
turrets, gargoyles, weather worn stone, and countless windows of varying sizes--it was
too much to take in as they climbed the stairs to the main entrance. He was certain he
caught a glimpse of movement in one of the windows, but when he turned to where he
was sure he saw a figure, there was nothing.
“Does Miss Elwell live here alone?”
A shadow of amusement crossed the pale features of the man’s drawn face. “No,
sir.”
Roger’s unsettled imagination was beginning to spin wildly out of control. He
didn’t believe in the supernatural, but if there were such an anomaly as trapped souls on
earth, or evil using a particular building as a doorway from one dimension to another,
then this was a perfect setting.
Thoughts of wayward spirits and demons were quickly dispelled when they were
met in the foyer by a maid, who curtsied in front of Roger. Small, slight and very pretty,
even in a uniform which was far too conservative for his liking, he tried to make eye
contact. She kept her gaze lowered--perhaps part of the British upper class protocol he
was unfamiliar with.
“Maria shall escort you to your quarters. Dinner is at seven.” With that, the
chauffeur lumbered off.
Petite as she was, Maria was prepared to take the suitcase. “No,” Roger said
warmly. “I’ll take that.” Their hands accidentally touched on the handle--only for a
moment--but enough time for a streak of heat to bolt up his arm, like a burst of
electricity. A flash of light blinded him and within it he saw himself on a four-poster bed
surrounded by several scantily clad women. Drapes of heavy scarlet velvet hung from the
canapé, material that was slowly closing, as though the final stage act had been
performed. Then it was gone. He blinked nervously, struggling with bewilderment. He
flushed with heat despite the damp cold air of the foyer.
“Thank you, sir,” she said quickly and started down the passageway. Roger
followed, wondering if he had finally begun a slippery slope into madness. The ambience
didn’t help. As they proceeded along a lengthy dully lit corridor, eyes of portraits seemed
to follow him. And he didn’t fail to notice that every painting was female. Medieval
ladies with porcelain white faces, blood red lips and opal eyes--eyes that shifted--bore
into him as though he was being thoroughly inspected. He felt that these were the scantily
clad women he visualized on the bed. … It crossed his mind that the initial response to
turn back at the airport might have been a good idea.
Too late now. He had come this far, so he wasn’t about to surrender to tattered
nerves from fatigue and jet lag. He had to keep reminding himself he had no belief in the
occult, even though he coveted ancient books on the subject, penned by superstitious men
who dismissed the logic of science. Bumps in the night and Boogey Men were for
children and the mentally incapacitated.
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“Your room, sir.” She curtsied again.
“Why, thank ya, darlin’,” he said, hoping to get her to show emotion.
She didn’t. “Miss Elwell will see you at six in the study. Bard will collect you.”
Then she spun and disappeared round the corner. Bard? What kind of name was that?
He stood, alone in the corridor, wondering what in hell he had managed to get
himself into this time. Still, it’d be worth it in the end, especially if she actually had the
type of manuscript he suspected she had. A wry smile born from greed crept across his
face.
“Yessss.”
He froze, his arm half extended towards to handle of the door. A shiver rippled
down his spine. The sultry sigh had come from behind him. Slowly he turned, expecting
to see someone, anyone, because the voice had been so clear. Nothing. There wasn’t even
a draft.
Sheer stubbornness kept him from moving. He wasn’t about to let anything rattle
his stoic belief in the rationale, not even an unidentifiable whisper. Bumps in the night.
Boogey men. He was a long ways from mentally incompetent, which meant that Miss
Elwell was up to something. Just what that might be he had no way of knowing. “Right,
lady,” he growled, suspecting there were hidden security cameras tucked everywhere.
“You want to play games; that’s fine with me. Go ahead and draw the line in the sand.”
There and then he decided to be extra vigilant.
God, how he hated doing business with women. Especially rich eccentric ones.
His assurance didn’t last long. No sooner had he entered the appointed guest room
when he saw the four-poster bed, draped in scarlet velvet. An exact replica of what he
had ‘seen’ in that peculiar vision. Except there were no scantily clad nymphomaniacs
sprawled over the covers, and the drapes stayed open.
Despite the agitation he suffered because of his earlier premonition, the room was
attractive and comfortable. Dark wood paneling, flowered tapestries, a sofa, several
chairs, antique bureau. A window opened out over the moor. Roger threw his suitcase on
the bed, concentrating on his annoyance. By focusing on his suspicions he’d keep
disconcertion at bay. Still, there was no denying it--this place was downright eerie--no
security camera or electronic equipment could duplicate a room in his head before he had
actually seen it.
The sooner he could complete their business transactions, and leave, the better.
Roger wrenched out his arm, checking his watch. An hour before he’d be
‘collected’. Enough time to get cleaned up, changed. The en-suite washroom was modern
in comparison to the medieval ambience of the estate. Pipes rattled within the walls when
he turned on the faucet, and the water was little more than tepid. Still, he felt a lot better
after a quick shower and a shave. And seeing there was a distinct formality lurking
beneath the surface of the estate’s ambience, he dressed in a suit. Might as well make a
good impression.
With the few minutes to spare Roger leaned lazily against the casement, admiring
the expansive view of the moor. When a convertible spun into the courtyard, he moved
slightly to one side. A woman, long blonde hair, jeans and a sweat shirt, jumped out from
behind the wheel. She acknowledged someone on the top of the steps. Roger had to lean
to see who she was waving to, and was struck between shock and amusement when
another woman, whom he suspected was his hostess, embraced the visitor with intimacy.
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It was more than a simple gesture of greeting. His jaw dropped when the two engaged in
a delicate and lingering kiss.
“Well, well,” he mumbled to himself. “Keen on a lady friend, are you Miss
Victoria?” His libido was calculating the odds that maybe, if he played his cards right, he
could become a part of their promiscuous lifestyle. Threesome--his own spin on what
goes bump in the night. The evening was beginning to have interesting prospects. “This
might not be so bad after all.”
Roger Brinckworthe could be accused of many things. Putting business ahead of
pleasure wasn’t one of them.
“Is he watching?” Victoria whispered into Leena’s ear.
“Yes. He’s in the window now.”
“Good,” she said, running her long nails through the silken blonde hair. “We’ve
got him right where we want him.”
Chapter Three
“Mr. Brinckworthe, it’s lovely to meet you.”
“The pleasure is all mine, I assure you,” he said, reaching her extended hand,
clasping it in a gentle shake. The picture of Victoria Elwell in an impassioned kiss with
her lady friend had seared in Roger’s mind. The mental visions he was entertaining were
far from gentlemanly. And now that he had a chance to see her close-up, he evaluated her
femininity into one word--stunning. He couldn’t take his eyes off her.
“I trust you found your accommodation suitable?”
She had the blackest eyes he had ever seen--transfixing him momentarily into a
hypnotic void. Her flawless complexion was framed with dark hair that hung in curls to
her shoulder. And her perfume was divine, like exotic Eastern spice. He lifted her hand,
lightly kissing the back. “I am finding everything more than suitable.”
Her brow rose. “Ah,” she smiled, “I guess this is an example of that great
American charm I’ve heard so much about. Best be on my guard, had I?”
“Always,” he purred. Her accent was adorable; soft vowels--musical. Beautiful
woman--smelled and sounded delightful. It was lust at first sight. God, lady, I hope you
swing both ways.
“Join me in a sherry?”
“Certainly.”
He sat on an expansive leather sofa wrenching his eyes away from his hostess
long enough to peruse the room. Solid oak desk, bookshelves from floor to ceiling, a
crackling fire in the hearth and a liquor cabinet well stocked. Very impressive. He could
easily get used to this old-style affluence. “You have a truly magnificent home,” he said.
She flipped a curl over one shoulder. “It’s up for sale.”
“Really?” Roger was taken aback at her abrupt tone. To ask why might be too
presumptuous, especially this early in their acquaintance. Odd, though, how he felt so
comfortable, like he was revisiting an old friend, or lover.
