Impassion (Mystic) Read online

  “We’ll get through this, Layla. We can’t make the hurt go away, but it’s temporary. Your death would be permanent.”

  “So I’m supposed to just sit around here and hurt and hope that someday it will all go away? That’s my future?”

  “Only the immediate future. When this is over, you have wonderful things waiting for you. Promise me you’ll stick around long enough to experience them.”

  “Like I said,” she grumbled, “I don’t have a choice, so take your promise, whatever it’s worth. It’s not like it makes a difference.”

  “It makes all the difference in the world to me,” he corrected. “Thank you.” He nuzzled her nose then gave it a kiss. “Now I’ll make you a promise. While you wait for your chance to live without the hurt, I promise I’ll do everything I can to make the pain tolerable, and I won’t stop until we figure out how to make it go away.”

  “Fine,” she huffed. “You said it, now I’m counting on it, no matter how guilty it makes me feel.”

  “No guilt,” he whispered, sweeping his lips across hers. “I’m doing exactly what I want to do.” He gave her a kiss then curled her into his chest. “Now sleep. It’s been a long day.”

  He could tell she wanted to argue, but she was out of steam. “Fine,” she conceded, “but you have to sleep, too; I don’t want you to move.”

  He smiled, tightening his hug as he buried his face in her hair. “That’s a demand I’m more than happy to meet.”

  “Will you wake me before you leave for work?”

  “Yes. Now sleep.”

  “Mmkay,” she mumbled, muscles melting.

  Quin watched her aura until the flow mellowed and the sad colors faded, and only then did he find his own peace-of-mind.

  Chapter 17

  Twelve hours! Agro had been searching Idaho for more than twelve hours and hadn’t found a trace of evidence, not one sign of the witch and her power.

  Learning there were thirteen households with the surname Callaway in Ada County had launched a daunting yet promising quest, but after hours of sneaking through dark rooms, searching filing cabinets, attics, closets and photo albums, he remained empty-handed.

  Now he was in the small town of Star, searching the home of his final lead—an elderly couple known to the census office as George and Nancy Callaway.

  The rising sun filtered through lace curtains as Agro examined the bills on a roll-top desk, listening to a noisy lark raise hell on the other side of the window. Nothing about George and Nancy’s finances raised suspicion, so Agro moved to a bookshelf and examined the framed photos. All of them appeared to be pictures of kids, grandkids and family vacations, but none of them contained an emerald-eyed witch.

  “Don’t move,” a man ordered, and a quick series of loud clicks resounded in Agro’s ears—the cocking of a pump-action shotgun.

  Agro slowly raised his hands, inwardly cursing the noisy lark for obscuring the gunman’s footsteps. After tiptoeing around Ada County all night to avoid a mess, Agro had found one in the final house.

  He cautiously turned, finding first the hollow barrel of a gun, then George, whose stooped posture and frail frame exposed his age. The steady grip he had on his weapon, however, told the tale of a huntsman.

  “Keep your hands where I can see them,” George demanded, eyeing Agro’s cloak. “Is this some kind of joke?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Agro replied, flicking a wrist.

  The barrel of the gun jerked to the left, and Farriss appeared behind George, taking the crown of his head in one hand and his chin in the other. A deafening blast echoed through the room as Farriss yanked. Then glass shattered as George’s lifeless body toppled to the floor.

  Agro looked at the broken window, taking pleasure in the idea that a shotgun pellet dispatched that bothersome lark. Then a scream pierced his ringing eardrums, drawing his attention to the doorway.

  Wearing a long nightgown with frilly lace and periwinkle pansies, Nancy stood on the threshold, mouth gaping at her husband’s body.

  “Here we go,” Agro sighed.

  Nancy screamed as her brain tried to move faster than her old bones could take her. She turned, hitting the doorjamb with a bony shoulder. Then she bounced off the hallway wall and stumbled out of sight.

  “The hexless are pathetic,” Agro scorned, rolling his eyes. “Put her out of her misery.”

  “Yes, sir,” Farriss agreed, heading for the corridor.

  Agro followed, watching from the hallway as Farriss caught up with the fleeing woman.

  She screamed and threw a respectable punch for a hexless woman her age, but Farriss dodged and she tumbled over the back of a sofa. Getting to her wrinkled hands, she released a horrid sound similar to a dying cat. “Please. Take what you want, just let me go.”

  “Shut her up,” Agro barked, and Farriss leapt over the couch.

  “No,” Nancy blubbered, reaching for the patio door.

  One of Farriss’ palms closed over her mouth as the other grasped the back of her head. Then a muffled crack silenced her sobs.

  “What a mess,” Agro mumbled, running a hand down his face.

  “The neighbors down the road probably heard the shot,” Farriss noted. “They’ll be calling soon.”

  As if on cue, the phone rang, and both wizards looked at it.

  “What would you have me do?” Farriss asked, stepping over Nancy’s body.

  Agro looked over his shoulder, scanning George, the shotgun, and the shattered window. Then he flipped his gaze to Nancy’s contorted neck. “Burn it down,” he ordered, hovering toward the door. “I’m going to take two of the men and return to camp; get some rest before we head for Oregon. At this rate, it will be Wednesday night before we question the witch’s family.”

  The phone stopped ringing then started again.

  “That’s tomorrow,” Farriss noted.

  “And tomorrow can’t come fast enough,” Agro snapped. “I’ve wanted this witch for more than two decades. Every minute that passes without her power at my disposal is a minute lost, so stop making excuses and burn this hexless shit-hole down.”

  “Yes, sir,” Farriss agreed, but then he added, “Why can’t we visit the witch’s family tonight, once we arrive in Oregon?”

  Agro’s nostrils flared as he looked at the textured ceiling and shook his head. “The witch wasn’t born to gutless weaklings, Farriss. I need my army alert when we question them. We won’t reach the Clatsop State Forest until midnight or later, so unless we want children guarding the camp while we grownups sleep, some of our soldiers will require a break once we reach our destination. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then get rid of this mess before someone catches you in the act.”

  The phone stopped ringing, and Agro pointed at it while raising his eyebrows at Farriss.

  “I’m on it,” Farriss assured, jumping into action.

  Agro raised his hood as he curled his lip at Nancy’s saggy body. Then he concealed himself and fled the macabre scene.

  Chapter 18

  Dread clutched Layla’s gut when her eyes popped open Tuesday morning, like she’d been having a nightmare. Then she realized it was due to the stress her presence was inflicting on the coven. She curled her fingers around Quin’s shirt, breathing him in as she magically cleaned her teeth. Then she looked up, finding him awake and watching her.

  “Hey,” he greeted, brushing her hair from her face.

  “Morning,” she returned. “Is it time for you to leave?”

  “Almost. Unless you’ll let me stay.”

  “I already feel guilty enough,” she refused. “Are you going to send Serafin over here to babysit me?”

  “No one’s going to babysit you. If you want to be alone, that’s what you’ll do. But so
meone needs to know where you are so we can find you if something happens.”

  “That’s fine. Tell Serafin I’ll call if I leave the house.” She tightly clutched his shirt and kissed his chest. Then she rolled out of bed and headed for the bathroom.

  When she returned, she found him waiting with coffee. “Thank you,” she sighed, smiling despite her worry.

  “My pleasure,” he returned, watching her sip. Then he took the mug and floated it to the table. “I’ll see you this evening?”

  “I’ll be here,” she mumbled, pouting at her captured coffee. Then Quin wiped her mind of the brew by pulling her into a hug.

  “I’ll miss you while I’m gone,” he noted.

  “Me, too,” she confessed, squeezing tightly.

  He took her cheeks and leaned in for a kiss. “Bye, Layla Love.”

  “Bye,” she whispered, smiling because he needed her to.

  He dropped his hands and flew from the room, and Layla grabbed her coffee on the way to the window. She moved the heavy curtain aside, watching Quin step from her porch, but instead of going home, he headed for her grandparents’ house, no doubt on his way to tell Serafin she was alone.

  Layla sighed as she looked to the pewter sky. Was she really doomed to a hidden existence? Apparently there were no officers of magical law, no prisons for powerful witches and wizards. Her only options were hide, kill or be killed.

  She watched the lawn and considered her predicament until her coffee was gone. Then she found her cell. No missed calls.

  She dialed Travis’ number, and her heart lightened when she got him on the first ring. He sounded better, not as mad at the world as he’d been during their last conversation, but he seemed busy with funeral plans, so she didn’t keep him long. She did, however, mention she was related to the owner of Cinnia’s Cannon Café and had already found her family, who seemed nice and normal and happy to see her. Only the normal part was a lie, so Layla delivered it with relative ease.

  After hanging up, she called Phyllis and gave her the same spiel. Phyllis was thrilled with the news and wanted to ask a dozen questions, but she needed to go to an orientation meeting for her new job at the local bar.

  “Congrats on the bartending gig,” Layla offered. “Don’t let the drunks get away with too much.”

  “Not on my shift,” Phyllis countered. “I’ll paddle their butts then call their moms.”

  Layla smirked as she dug through her luggage. “They’ll love that.”

  “Either that or they’ll behave.”

  “Give ’em hell,” Layla encouraged, finding a pair of faded jeans. “Hey, before you go, I wanted to ask you to call me if Travis needs help with funeral costs. I know he won’t take it, but if he’s struggling, I’ll make an anonymous donation to the funeral home. He’ll think some snooty citizen did it for bragging rights, but he won’t be able to refuse.”

  “He hasn’t mentioned anything about money,” Phyllis assured, “but if it comes up, I’ll let ya know.”

  “Thanks,” Layla replied, grabbing a white t-shirt. “I’ll talk to you later.”

  “Okay, hon. Bye.”

  Layla hung up and tossed the phone in a chair. Then she took a long shower, wishing the water was magical and could wash away worry and guilt. No such luck. The dread weighed on her no matter what she did. Not even a trip to the turret room cheered her up.

  She lay on the white sofa for a long time, staring at the skylight as she searched for a reasonable way to end the fear she’d cast on her family, but she didn’t know enough about the magical world to help it, just enough to feel like a scourge upon it.

  Rain played percussion on the skylight into the afternoon, a dreary beat to match her attitude, so she decided to join it outside. She headed for the phone in the living room, stopping for a sweatshirt along the way. Then she called Serafin.

  “Hello?” he answered.

  “Hey,” she greeted.

  “Layla Love. How are you today?”

  “Fine. I just called to tell you I’m going outside.”

  “Would you like your grandma and me to join you?”

  “No,” Layla answered, instinctively and without regard for her grandpa’s feelings. She squeezed her eyes shut, regretting many things. “I’m sorry, Serafin. I don’t mean to be rude. I just want to be alone right now.” She was accustomed to being alone. It made her feel halfway normal.

  “I understand,” he conceded. “Let me know if you change your mind.”

  “I will.”

  A moment of silence. Then he spoke again. “I know this is difficult, Layla, and I understand you’re used to dealing with things on your own, but we don’t have to do that around here. It’s different, I know, but if you give it a chance, you might find it fits.”

  “I’ll work on that,” she replied, unsure what else to say.

  He sighed then cleared his throat. “Call or come by if you need anything.”

  “I will. Bye.”

  “Bye, Layla.”

  She hung up and stared at the phone, wondering why it was so easy to slip into a lonely life, yet harder than hell to slip out.

  Her stomach growled, so she headed for the kitchen, hoping Morrigan followed through with her plans to stock food. After starting a pot of coffee, Layla opened the fridge to find it full of her favorite snacks, including the most perfect looking apples she’d ever seen. Knives, however, were nowhere to be found.

  “Oh yeah,” she mumbled, rolling her eyes.

  With a wave of her hand, she peeled and sliced her apple. Then she leaned against the counter, watching the coffee brew as she ate.

  Finally, with average caffeine in hand, she walked outside and settled herself in the middle of the lawn. Though the rain had slowed to a drizzle, it quickly saturated her hair, and her butt got soaked the moment she sat. She didn’t mind getting wet, but it left her susceptible to the icy breeze dipping into the clearing.

  She closed her eyes, imagining an invisible, rainproof dome sheltering her body, and the wind stilled. When she opened her eyes, she found the rain hitting her spell only to splash away or trickle downward, like a bubble under a waterfall.

  She magically dried her hair and sweatshirt. Then she sipped her coffee while watching the outside world blur. A tranquil moment—sitting somewhat warm and halfway dry as her magic did exactly as she intended. But the peace shattered when a flash of color landed outside her dome.

  “That’s a nifty umbrella,” said a confident female voice. “Who’s under there?”

  Layla dropped her spell, tensing as her gaze landed on a stranger—a witch around twenty with pretty clothes and a bright aura.

  “I don’t know you,” the woman pointed out.

  “Why would you?” Layla asked.

  “Because I know everyone in this coven,” the woman answered. “I’m Maeveen. I live in a community southeast of here, in the Willamette National Forest.”

  Layla scanned the witch from top to bottom, trying to decide if she could be trusted. The coven was supposed to be guarding the property, so apparently they didn’t mind Maeveen coming in, but Layla was surprised Serafin hadn’t ushered her inside first. Guess it’s okay, she decided, offering a hand. “Nice to meet you, Maeveen. I’m Layla.”

  Her hand went unnoticed as Maeveen’s green and gold eyes grew huge. “The Layla? As in—the mysterious Layla?”

  Layla stiffened, attempting to lighten her aura without closing her eyes. She felt it work, but couldn’t tell how well. Why was this woman calling her the mysterious Layla when Quin claimed no one outside the coven knew about her mysterious past?

  Maeveen still hadn’t accepted her hand, so Layla dropped it and played dumb. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Who’s the mysterious Layla?”

  Maeveen tilt
ed her head. “Quin’s mysterious Layla.”

  “What?” Layla blurted, nearly losing her grip on her aura. “Quin has a mysterious Layla?”

  Maeveen propped her hands on her skinny hips, looking confused. “Are you lying?”

  “About what?”

  “You really don’t know about Quin’s mysterious Layla?”

  “No, I really don’t.”

  Maeveen curiously stared for a long moment. Then she flipped her auburn hair behind her shoulders and sat. “Quin’s going to kill me for talking about this. He may not even know I’m aware of it, but I’m sure he assumes. He isn’t an idiot.”

  “Aware of what?” Layla asked, trying not to sound too interested.

  “He has recurring dreams about someone named Layla,” Maeveen explained. “Always has.”

  Layla’s eyes widened as her brain sped. What? Quin has recurring dreams about her? And he never told her? Her internal rant halted, and she narrowed her eyes on Maeveen’s aura. “How do you know?”

  “Because girls talk,” Maeveen answered. “Nearly every girl he’s been with has heard him say the name Layla in his sleep. He doesn’t even try to deny it. When his women ask about it, he confirms he’s been dreaming about someone else, and he doesn’t offer too many apologies either, no explanations or excuses, nothing. If his women can’t handle it, or if they suggest he purge the dreams, he’ll bow out. The idea alone is a deal breaker.”

  Layla swished the revelation around in her head, trying not to look as shocked as she felt.

  “So are you her?” Maeveen asked, smiling like a teenage girl getting the juicy details of her best friend’s first kiss.

  “I have no idea,” Layla mumbled. “I didn’t even know there was a her.”

  “Hmm…” Maeveen hummed, filling in the details herself. “This must be why he broke Caitlyn’s heart yesterday.”

  Layla snapped her head up, ignoring the pain that shot through her neck. It was nothing compared to the cinderblock that knocked the air from her lungs. “Caitlyn?”