Gift of Air

By C.L. Carhart

Can a fiery mage heal an airy witch’s broken heart?

My older sister was a sorceress.

The clergy feared her protection spells. They shunned my family and compelled my father to curse her. Now she’s dead, and it’s my duty to carry on her legacy.

Of course my outcries angered the clergy and my own people.

The only way I can escape my sister’s fate is to bind my heart to a Teuton priest—a member of an ancient caste that views women as naïve fools too weak to wield magic. Obviously, that goes against my beliefs. Someone has to continue my sister’s work, and it might as well be me. I won’t let some mage with a master’s complex upend my plans.

Then Horst walked into my life . . . .

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• Language: English
• Publisher: C.L. Carhart
• Release date: Jun 20, 2023
• ISBN: 9781954807174

C.L. Carhart

C.L. Carhart has been writing since the age of 4, dabbling in everything from children’s books, to fantasy, to historical fiction. Eventually, her lifelong interest in European history inspired her to create a paranormal fantasy realm based on the Teutonic people groups. The His Name Was Augustin series provides a first glimpse at this other-world—a place rife with ancient mysteries and dark magic.Born and raised in southern New Jersey, C.L. spends her free time hiking with her husband, enjoying metal music, snuggling her feline familiars, and dreaming of the wonders of Germany.

Book preview

Gift of Air

An Elemental Bloodlines Prequel

C.L. Carhart

Table of Contents

Blurb

Author’s Note

The Supportive Sister

The Fiery Priest

Hearts Unveiled

The Dream World

False Accusations

Departure

Sensual Wonders

Wedding Preparations

Bound by Blood

Also by C.L. Carhart

About the Author

Copyright © C.L. Carhart 2022

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without permission in writing from the copyright owner except in the case of brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

ISBN: 978-1-954807-17-4

https://www.clcarhart.com

Cover Design © J. L. Wilson Designs | https://jlwilsondesigns.com

For Kris,

whose insight and determination

inspire many of my books.

I see you, and I love you.

Blurb

Can a fiery mage heal an airy witch’s broken heart?

My older sister was a sorceress.

The clergy feared her protection spells. They shunned my family and compelled my father to curse her. Now she’s dead, and it’s my duty to carry on her legacy.

Of course my outcries angered the clergy and my own people.

The only way I can escape my sister’s fate is to bind my heart to a Teuton priest—a member of an ancient caste that views women as naïve fools too weak to wield magic. Obviously, that goes against my beliefs. Someone has to continue my sister’s work, and it might as well be me. I won’t let some mage with a master’s complex upend my plans.

Then Horst walked into my life . . . .

~*~

Gift of Air is a suspenseful paranormal (mf) romance set in the Austrian Alps shortly after the Second World War. It is Ilsa and Horst’s complete story.

Author’s Note

All stories in the Teutonic Fantasy Realm take place in a world much like our own. Major historical events—like the World Wars—occurred similarly to those in our present world. Major locales—like Innsbruck and Seefeld—can also be found in modern Austria.

However, all Teutonic history, customs, and magic, are utter figments of the author’s imagination. As far as she knows, no actual elemental witches roam modern Austria in secret, nor is it possible for outsiders to seize their magnificent gifts. And no, the demon lord Wuotan is not a real being.

We hope.

Words in the fictional Teutonic dialect are italicized.

~*~

This book includes content that might be triggering for some readers. There are instances of sexuality, profanity, and mature themes. This book is an MF romance with a HEA.

Chapter One:

The Supportive Sister

On the day before Palm Sunday, the church bells woke me at eight a.m. Her voice called to me from my dreams, weaving a melody far sweeter than those resounding tones. They had once stood for forgiveness and hope, for love and acceptance, for a shelter from the world’s cruelty.

That had changed with my sister’s final breath. Excommunicated for witchcraft, her plans for a meaningful life came to naught when the leaders of our town cast our father down from his position among them. The clergy ostracized him and his friends and neighbors shunned him, for he harbored a witch. A young Teuton woman who overstepped her bounds, who invoked evil spirits to save a woman in childbirth.

To restore our family’s honor, our father had done what any Teuton father would do—or so he claimed. He performed the filial curse upon my sister just before Christmas. Only Teuton priests deep in the throes of blood magic could survive that curse; my sister’s connection with the spirits was not enough. I had to stand there, fighting against my mother’s restraining arms, as my closest friend bled to death before she could write her name upon the parchment.

She died before the curse was complete, and thus, her name would forever remain Alix Sophia von Kaenel. The one who taught me to seize the air and bend it to my will.

Alix lingered at the edges of my dreams every night, her voice beckoning to me beyond a threshold I could not cross. My father murdered her in front of me, though Teutonic law did not hold the filial curse in that light. He had done it to redeem himself in the public eye—and I could not forgive him for that.

Nor could I forgive the hypocrites who would attend mass this very morning, drinking in the promises of grace and eternal life. Alix’s blood cried out from the grave, heaven closed to her the moment she fell to my father’s knife. Outsiders would have burned her at the stake, a few centuries prior. Instead, they congratulated the father for cursing his daughter’s blood, letting them off the hook.

I sighed heavily as I dressed myself, my blue-gray eyes catching a fleeting glimpse of my face in the mirror over my dresser. My straight brown hair looked like I had fought a demon for Alix’s life while I slept, so I plodded toward the dresser as the bells concluded their songs. If I wanted to demonstrate in front of the church this morning, I would have to wait until mass had finished. The audience would be larger today, since it was the week before Easter. Maybe some people would heed my appeals. Tugging a brush through my uncooperative locks, I managed to tease them into a light blue net that matched my blouse. That would do.

On my way out of my bedroom, I snatched one of the placards that sat beneath my daily calendar on the wall. It was Saturday, the 3rd of April 1955, and the poster I grabbed read, If love covers a multitude of sins, why didn’t it save my sister’s life? A black-and-white photograph of Alix in her confirmation gown stood beneath the words, with her name and death date written at the bottom. Although those local to our town had long since stopped reacting to my silent protests, I had gotten some traction at several churches in Innsbruck recently. The Alpine resort city was just a short train ride away.

My mother met me in the hallway before I shut my bedroom door. She wore a house dress and apron—an accessory she never would have donned before our neighbors turned their backs on our family. Even during the war and subsequent years of famine, my father had hired housekeepers while my mother shared our rations with those in need. Now, no one would work for us. Our generosity meant nothing after my sister’s disgrace.

I paused after closing my bedroom door behind me, and my mother’s blue eyes zeroed in on the placard I carried. Oh, no you don’t, Ilsa. No demonstrating today. We have a guest coming for lunch whose interest is solely in you.

I recoiled, my thoughts racing to the past few Saturdays when Nelke and I held our signs in silent protest at three different churches in Innsbruck. Just last week, we had gotten up the courage to demonstrate in front of the main cathedral—and a group of young Teuton men came to heckle us. We could tell that they were our own people from the elemental auras that surrounded each one. College students, one of mist, one of earth, one of wintry wind. Nothing my air and Nelke’s snow couldn’t handle, if Teutons dared to display their magic in public. But that group had seemed satisfied to merely catcall at us.

My instincts told me that this guest had connections with that incident. I have no desire to listen to some old priest from Innsbruck tell me I’m going to hell, I informed my mother. The young men had doubtless squealed on Nelke and me to the local authorities.

My mother’s features grew sterner, and she held up one finger. You and your friend have taken things a bit too far. Two of the Teuton priests from Innsbruck’s council spoke with your father late on Sunday night.

I cringed again, my resentment toward my father simmering deep in my blood. Since he had murdered Alix, I spoke to him only in passing and avoided him as much as possible. Part of me suspected that he had made some deal with the Teuton priests from Innsbruck, something that would take me out of his life for good. My sister had uncovered some of their despicable habits just before she was accused of witchcraft. Funny how authorities would decry a woman who helped others before denouncing the evils of blood slavery.

If he’s going to sell me to them to pay off his debts, I guess I’d better start packing, I muttered, the quiver in my voice betraying me. I had engaged in protests, not witchcraft, so my father could not curse me. But if Teuton priests are involved . . . .

My mother glared at me and jerked her head toward the back staircase. Come to the kitchen and let’s talk about it. I’m going to need your help with lunch.

I gnawed on my cheek for a moment, debating on whether I should refuse or go along with her for now. Carefully, I released my spiritual magic to do a quick sweep of the house. My element sensed no Teutons present aside from my mother, father, grandmother, and uncle. There were no priests lurking to bind me without warning—at least not yet.

After putting the placard back with the others, I followed my mother to the kitchen, where she had brewed a pot of black coffee. She poured