Wicked Deeds on a Winter's Night by Kresley Cole Page A

farther down and that vacuum will catch us for sure. Ach, I can feel the pull on my feet already. And now it’s starting to rain.”
    She raised her head in disbelief. Fat drops of water beaned her in the face.
    He deliberately let go, allowing them to plunge several feet before he snatched the vine back, jouncing her over his back as her hands frantically fisted in his shirt.
    â€œStop that! Ah, gods, stop that!”
    â€œGive me my hand back!”
    Think! She did believe she could successfully remove the curse, even as weak as she was. Removing spells wasn’t as difficult as placing them, she reminded herself. Elianna always said, “A toddler can’t inscribe calligraphy but can easily erase it.”
    Silently vowing to stick a new, worse curse on him at the earliest opportunity, she laid her flat hand on his back, then drew it outward, pulling at the hex.
    Nothing. Gritting her teeth, she returned her hand and attempted once more. This time her hand met resistance, as though she’d laid her palm in a pool of glue. She had a grip on the hex!
    Mari drew her hand back again. Stretching . . . pulling . . .
    His hand began to regenerate—growing, bulging in his bloody bandage until his new claws ripped through the cloth.
    As he stared at his healing hand, he murmured, “You’ve almost done it.” He sounded partly mystified and partly disgusted.
    â€œI’m too weak.”
    â€œMore of it, witch!”
    She shook her head against his back. “I’m going to pass out again.”
    â€œDoona care.”
    â€œI do! Vow to the Lore that you’ll get me safely to Rydstrom.”
    â€œTo Rydstrom, then?” he snapped in a strange tone. “Do this and I’ll vow it.”
    Inhaling a deep breath, she made another shaking attempt, growing dizzier with each second.
    â€œThat’s it.” His hand appeared restored, and still he demanded in a husky voice, “ More. ”
    She gritted between her teeth, “Doing everything . . . I can  . . .”
    With his new hand, he ripped at the bandage on his head and raised his bared face to the rain. “Good girl. Now only one more spell to go—”
    Was that her strangled cry? And the world went black once more.

12

    A s the witch’s slight body grew limp over him, Bowe’s strength came surging back. He blinked his eyes, flexed his hand, and inhaled deeply. After inwardly cataloging his many smaller injuries he realized he was completely healed—whole again. No pain, no wrenching agony in his ribs with each breath. She’d done it.
    Bowe recognized that he felt better than he had in memory.
    Now he easily climbed the vine, and even leapt the twenty feet to the top of the mountainside shelf he’d sought. Earlier from below, he’d scented that somewhere at this elevation there was a source of spring water in case it stopped raining. He’d also noted the musty odor of a sheltering cave in case it didn’t. As soon as he’d claimed her from Rydstrom, Bowe had made for the mountain.
    The cave was about a half mile away through thick hardwoods, so he decided to get food and drink into the witch at once, now that the immediate danger had passed. He stalked a small, square area of the plateau, surveying for poisonous plants or animals. With his keen eyesight restored, he spied none—only rain-matted, leafy vines. Yes, this place would work.
    Once he laid Mariketa on the bed of thick foliage, thelight rain began to wash away the blood on her face and smoothed her hair back from her pointed ears. With one of her slender arms limp at her side and the other curled beside her head, she merely looked like a delicate, vulnerable female—not the witch of unspeakable power he’d just witnessed. And not the killer she’d proven herself to be.
    He had indistinct memories of her rather ordinary looks—nothing special or standout,