a prequel scene on Oakmoor’s seventeenth natalday

After dinner on his seventeenth natalday a month before Summerday, Oakmoor strode from Oakmoor Castle to walk the picturesque hills around his estate, which was nestled against the D’vark Mountains.

Evening had fallen and stars were twinkling in the moonless sky when a chillingly familiar, husky voice drawled in the dark rolling meadow, “Good evening, your grace.”

His stomach tensing, he whirled to face Elvaira, the exotic gypsy witch who’d seduced him at the bonfire the day before Harvestfete. After taking his virginity, the gloating witch had gushed that she’d known they’d be perfect together and that they’d be together forever because he belonged to her. Her mad talk had chilled him. Their one time together had been nothing more than a moment of weakness fueled by too much wine, a lifetime of isolation due to his high rank, finally being free of his distant guardian Bedivere who’d died that summer, and the seductive wiles of an exotic, older woman. So he’d fled and avoided Elvaira as well as flirted with other girls to prove he didn’t belong to her. However, she’d confronted him after the Harvestfete pantomime the next day, snarling that he belonged to her and that he’d regret angering a Rhiannon descendant, who were the most powerful of all witches. Thankfully, Elvaira and the other gypsies had left the day after, and she’d gradually faded to the occasional nightmare in the following eight months.

Oakmoor forced a smooth smile and nodded at his erstwhile lover lit by a white witchlight glowing above her head. “Good evening, Elvaira.”

Her scarlet lips curving in a smirk, Elvaira sashayed toward him with her witchlight following. “As charming and handsome as ever, I see.”

He swallowed but maintained his smile. He must find an excuse to leave. “And you’re just as beautiful.” Her dark-brown hair and eyes, exotic tan skin, and lush curves were still incredibly seductive. As were her feminine strength and air of magic. Yet her obsessive behavior made her like a juicy apple with a poison core. He performed a fluid bow. “‘Tis been good to see you again, but I must return to the castle. ‘Tis becoming late.”

Before he could escape, Elvaira flung herself against him and wrapped her arms about his neck. “Not until we’ve made love under the stars.”

Although his body tightened at hers pressed against him, Oakmoor shuddered and freed himself then held her away from him. “No. Our night together was exciting, but a mistake. I apologize.”

Her shoulders stiffening beneath his hands, Elvaira glared at him. “Stuff your apologies. I seduced you, your grace. You’re mine now.”

He inhaled but gritted an apologetic smile despite his flaring pulse at his former lover’s obsessive madness. “I’m afraid not.”

Elvaira glowered. “Because you’re a wealthy duke and I’m a common gypsy.”

Oakmoor almost snorted. That was the least of their differences. He was a sane gentleman without magical powers, while she was a mad and powerful witch. Yet he simply shook his head and replied, “No, because I don’t love you, and you don’t love me. We hardly know each other.”

Elvaira’s voice darkened, “I see.” She pinched off a lock of his hair with her magic then wrenched herself free while her white witchlight above her turned scarlet. Her smile twisting, she said, “Just remember you could have prevented your doom by agreeing to belong to me like you were meant to be.”

He frowned and began backing away as Elvaira flung her hands upward and hurled his hair into her scarlet witchlight, clearly about to cast a spell on him. Not a curse since Elvaira wasn’t a black witch despite her madness, but whatever spell she planned wouldn’t be pleasant.

When Elvaira snarled something in the melodic witch’s tongue, a howling wind suddenly whipped around them, and black swirled in her scarlet witchlight. Then her witchlight unraveled into the wind, the scarlet threaded with black magic still illuminating them.

The hair on his neck prickling at the ominous magic, Oakmoor swore and fisted his hands. The howling wind trapped him with Elvaira as strongly as any chain. He shouted over its near deafening howl, “Stop this!”

Elvaira cackled, her dark eyes glassy with madness. “No! You had your chance. I told you that you’d regret angering a Rhiannon-descendant witch.”

Before he could protest further, Elvaira chanted, “One day a beast you’ll be to match your true self. A man-chimera with a goat’s lust, a snake’s betrayal, and a lion’s cruelty. A beast so hideous that no one shall ever love you when they see the true self you conceal behind your charming facade. I seal this curse with my magic and heart’s blood.”

Smirking at him, Elvaira plunged her lead and ebony dagger into her chest, and scarlet blood, the same shade as her magic, spurted as she crumbled.

He began surging toward Elvaira to staunch the bleeding. But before he’d taken two steps, the howling wind died, and her scarlet and black magic swarmed him like deadly melissae defending their hive. When her magic sank into his skin, boiling agony swamped him, and he screamed and collapsed, writhing as his heart raced and scalding tears burned his face.

Eventually, the agony faded, and Oakmoor rolled onto his back and panted while staring at the moonless sky which was lightening with the dawn. Dear Goddess, Elvaira had cursed him. Clearly, she was a black witch after all. Somehow, he must find another Rhiannon-descendant witch to break his beast curse. Except, other than Elvaira, he didn’t know any.

He lurched upright and staggered to Elvaira, who was still and cold with her face twisted in a rictus and her blood staining the ground around her. Very, very dead. Damn her obsessive madness. Why had he ever spoken to her? He snorted. Because she was the most exotic and seductive woman he’d ever seen. He was such a fool. He was never risking intimacy that involved love again. Love simply drove people mad. His father had committed suicide when his beloved wife had died in a carriage accident, and Elvaira had become obsessed with him after one night then killed herself to cast her vindictive beast curse.

Oakmoor dragged himself back to Oakmoor Castle and asked his valet Miles to have some footmen dispose of Elvaira’s body before stumbling upstairs to his chambers for a bath then sleep. Once he’d rested, he’d begin sending discreet inquiries for a Rhiannon-descendant witch. Yet he must ensure no word spread about his curse. He couldn’t trust anyone to discover it since they’d either pity him or seek to take advantage. But Elvaira had only cursed him to become a beast “one day”, so surely he’d time to break his curse.