“Oh, god,” she whimpered. “They were perfect . . . and I’ll never know what it’s like . . . to touch them and to let them touch me.”
Regret churned her stomach, throbbing her aching head and heart. She’d been harboring anger about her adoption—resentment toward her father and the disconnect she felt with her mother. Now the anger rebounded, smothering her in remorse, punishing her for daring to disrespect those who had blessed her with breath before forfeiting their own. And atonement was nowhere in sight. She’d never be able to look at her parents and tell them how much she loved them, how much their devotion meant to her. After everything they went through, they deserved to know—to hear it from their daughter’s lips that their undying love touched her; that she felt it pulse in her broken heart and course through her thriving veins. They hadn’t abandoned her; they’d saved her, and she’d give anything to let them know she understood the enormity of their sacrifice.
She sobbed harder, shoulders shaking. Then her ears started humming as her mom’s wedding ring quivered, expelling waves of vibrations up her arm. She opened her eyes, shocked and confused. Then a cooling sensation washed over fluctuating flesh, melting her tense muscles.
Quin’s shirt slipped from her grip, and he leaned back, running his bewildered gaze from her head to her toes. Layla looked down as well, and only then did she realize she was glowing. And singing! The humming wasn’t in her ears, but all around her, flowing from the ethereal mist that poured from the ring and blanketed her body.
Salty moisture blurred the beautiful sight, so Layla closed her eyes, sliding her vibrating hand to her chest. When the ring found her heart, warm affection and tranquility flooded her senses, and she unfurled, losing herself in the magic.
For a splendid moment in time, her broken heart and its aching shell vanished, and she was merely a soul, blissfully floating in her parents’ love. She could feel them as clearly as she felt anything else. They were more real than the bed beneath her. And while they didn’t speak, she could hear them. The mesmerizing mist and its magical message told her more than words could portray. Furthermore, if she could feel them, receive their message, surely they could feel her.
True or not, it brought Layla peace to believe it, to imagine her parents floating in her soul, absorbing all the love and appreciation she had to give, taking sublime comfort in knowing their hopes for their daughter had come true—she remained safe from wicked magicians and had found her family.
While Layla drifted on hope and love, as peaceful as a sleeping angel swaddled in fluffy clouds, she vowed to live her life in a way that would never forsake her parents’ sacrifices. They’d given her a gift beyond measure. No longer would she spend it in a rut. She’d find at least one thing to be thankful for every day, and she’d recall the undying love that paved her way.
Rhosewen’s ring stopped vibrating, the heavenly hum faded, and the feel-good magic ebbed, returning Layla to her liquid body, but she didn’t move or open her eyes. She just lay there with her hand over heart as silent tears streamed down her temples.
Despite her new lease on life and her vow to appreciate it, the emotional pain returned the moment the magic departed. Not even the strongest spells could make her forget the affectionate expression her mom wore when her heart burst with love, or the sorrowful and sweet goodbye her dad had given her before dying in a flash of agony. Those memories and many more would always be with her, and they would always hurt.
Layla knew the permanence of loss well. The day after Katherine’s passing, as she’d rocked in an old recliner that smelled of memories, Layla had realized with certainty that death was final, that no amount of wishing, hoping or praying could reverse what doctors could not. If ever she held faith, she’d lost it that day—the day she realized Katherine was gone, never to return, and she was alone, stuck in a world with no one to love.
Now, as she lay mourning those who’d given her life, realizing with certainty that they were gone, never to return, the hopelessness once again threatened to engulf her, to strip away any trace of faith she’d managed to retain. But this time Layla had something she’d lacked before. She had a family—a beautiful and kind family. No longer was she alone with no one to love.
She swallowed a lump and opened her eyes, finding her first reason to be thankful. Exquisitely stretched out beside her, his chest unobstructed and perfect for cuddling, Quin searched her face, his dark gaze shiny and deep.
“Hey,” he whispered, playing with one of her curls.
Layla tried to say hey back, but her throat was swollen shut.
“Do you need anything?” he asked.
She shook her head no, jarring more tears from her lids, and Quin reached over, softly wiping the moisture away. His tender touch intensified the emotions plucking on her raw heartstrings, and she turned her face into his hand, bursting into more sobs.
“I’m sorry,” she gasped, making a slobbery mess of his palm.
“Don’t be,” he replied, sliding his free hand under her head. Then he curled her into a ball and pulled her close, tucking her into his chest.
Layla continued to struggle with a never-ending supply of tears, but Quin’s alluring scent, strong heartbeat, and firm embrace cuddled her like a cozy cocoon, keeping her safe and warm as she mourned her old life and embraced the new—a life full of magic, family, and if she was really lucky . . . Quin.
Chapter Three
Bones throbbing, as if marrow had been replaced by liquid nitrogen, Farriss landed in the deserted alley of a strip mall and walked to a metal door. He reached for the silver knob with invisible fingers, used magic to twist the industrial lock and disarm the security system. Then he glanced around before slipping inside.
Twelve hours had passed since Farriss knelt at Agro’s feet, welcoming the icy punishment that thickened his blood and cramped his muscles, yet the whip’s freezing lash lingered, reminding him of his erroneous judgment. Forbidden to heal himself, Farriss endured, and he did so appreciatively. After losing his calm and burning down the Gander Creek diner, Farriss had expected much more than pain. He’d returned to Agro anticipating death.
It hadn’t been easy – entering Agro’s tent expecting the end – but Farriss refused to die a coward’s death, running from the inevitable wrath of the most dangerous wizard in North America.
Agro’s ice magic had run deep, and Farriss had longed for death, grinding his teeth to keep from begging for the end. But death didn’t come. Instead, Agro lifted him from the rug and poured him a glass of wine, telling him to shake it off; he had a real estate broker to interrogate.
Farriss did as he was told, grateful to be alive, but frozen to the bone.
Unfortunately, the real estate broker turned out to be a lawyer.
Farriss first visited the strip mall around noon, aiming to scout the place and perhaps slip inside for a home address. He figured Gerald Greene would be at church, or taking his family to lunch. That’s how most hexless citizens spent their Sundays in the Bible Belt, so Farriss was taken by surprise when he found Mr. Greene ushering a woman and two teenagers into his office.
Farriss had halted, reminded by the fierce frost still biting his bones that he should proceed with caution. Mr. Greene knew the witch; Agro wanted the witch. If Farriss were to hinder his boss’ desires, death would be the least of his worries.
Deciding it would be best to leave the woman and kids out of it, Farriss had rushed forward, stopping Mr. Greene before he could enter the building. That’s when Farriss realized Gerald wasn’t a real estate agent, but a lawyer, and a damn good one, with lips as tight as a virgin.
Gerald had been jovial at first, greeting Farriss with a curious smile and a polite handshake, but the moment Farriss inquired about Layla Callaway, the lawyer clammed up. He wouldn’t admit he was selling the witch’s house, let alone divulge her location.
Had it not been for the lingering pains of his previous punishment, Farriss would have gotten rough with the lawyer, who surely would
have cracked after a bit of mystical torture. However, given his strict instructions to keep a low profile, Farriss merely walked away.
Now, two hours later, he’d returned to the empty building and was floating down a dark hallway, searching for Gerald’s private office. He found it locked, but hexless bolts were no match for magic.
Once inside, Farriss floated across the room, wondering how long Agro would obsess over his newest target. In twenty years of servitude, Farriss had never witnessed such intense motivation in his boss, such burning desire to get his hands on one particular magician. Apparently the witch was something special. According to Agro, she was more powerful than a lowly brute like Farriss could comprehend. To that, Farriss had merely bowed his head, because he didn’t understand. Agro was surrounded by unusually powerful magicians at all times. Why risk everything for one more?
Farriss searched the desk for a Rolodex or an appointment book, finding neither. Since the rise in popularity of cell phones, address books were hard to come by. The cluttered desk was cleared where a computer should have been, which likely meant Gerald had taken his laptop home.
“Good,” Farriss muttered, heading for the filing cabinets. He hated hexless technology.
After manipulating the lock on the drawer marked A-C, he slid it open and vanished the glove on his left hand, illuminating the folders with supernatural light. Shortly into the Cs, he found a Callaway, but the first name was Katherine, not Layla. The next file belonged to a Caldwell then a Calvin.
“Shit.”
He pulled Katherine’s file and flipped it open. Maybe the suspicious lawyer secured Layla’s file after being questioned about her.
Using his magical light, Farriss scanned Katherine’s information, hoping she was connected to the witch. When he came across Katherine’s date of birth, he found a date of death as well – the second of January. Nearly three months before. It matched the information Farriss had gathered on Layla at the Gander Creek bar. Her mother – adopted mother actually – had passed away in January.
A sliver of relief rushed Farriss’ aching bones as he continued to scan Katherine’s file, looking for definitive proof. He found it on the second page. Katherine Callaway was the mother of eighteen-year-old Layla Callaway. They’d been living in Gander Creek, Oklahoma since Layla's birth. Upon her death, Katherine left a large sum of money and an envelope to her daughter, both of which were collected less than two weeks ago.
So, Layla Callaway, the deeply desired and powerful witch, had stood in that very office just days before, gathering her inheritance and an envelope of unknown content.
Farriss searched the rest of the documents, looking for bread crumbs that might lead to the witch’s current location, but the file lacked information older than her birth, and it didn’t list any other relatives or connections. The only clue Farriss found was a letter written by Katherine asking Gerald to settle a vehicle loan held by a bank in Ketchum, Idaho. Not much to go on, but at least it proved Farriss had followed orders. Perhaps he’d avoid a second dose of freezing wrath.
After committing a good portion of the file to memory, Farriss replaced the folder and secured the drawer, eager to return to camp. He pulled his glove on as he headed for the door. Then he froze as light poured into the hallway from the front lobby.
A man’s voice – Gerald’s voice – floated into the office. “Where did you leave it?”
“Your desk,” a woman answered. “I think.”
Gerald grumbled, his voice growing nearer. “How you manage to lose your cell every other day, I’ll never know. I’m going to glue it to your hand.”
“You’ll do no such thing,” she laughed. “If ya’d given me your keys, I coulda done this myself.”
“I didn’t want you here by yourself. You saw that man asking questions earlier.”
“He was pissed. But what do ya think he’d do? Break in…”
Her voice faded as she and Gerald halted at the open door of his office, nervously peering into the dim room.
“Did ya forget to lock up?” the woman asked.
“No,” Gerald answered.
“Was the security system on?” she pressed.
“I didn’t notice,” he mumbled, reaching around the corner for the light switch. “I just push the buttons. Maybe Dolores stopped by for something.”
Farriss watched from two feet away, his body magically concealed, frozen in more ways than one. He didn’t even breathe lest Gerald feel the air escape his lungs.
“There it is,” the woman exclaimed, moving into the office.
Her elbow nearly brushed Farriss’ cloak, so he took a step back and almost hit a coat rack. Shit. He was under strict instruction to leave the lawyer and his office unscathed, but if it came down to discovery or disaster, Farriss would have to choose the latter then pay the price.
Gerald followed the woman into the office, halting a foot from Farriss as he searched for something out of order. There wasn’t anything unusual to find, so he turned and watched his companion grab her cell phone from one of the chairs.
“Are ya gonna call Dolores?” she asked. “See if she stopped by?”
“I’ll call her when I get home,” Gerald answered, taking the woman’s hand. “I don’t want to be around if that guy comes back. I get enough interrogation in court.”
Gerald flipped off the lights then closed the door, and Farriss’ lungs deflated as he floated forward. Keys jingled as the lock clicked into place, and Farris reached for the doorknob, but he didn’t turn it. He stood inert as he listened to the woman’s muffled reply, waiting for the conversation to fade away.
“What was he?” she asked. “Bounty hunter?”
“I’d say maybe,” Gerald replied, “but it doesn’t make sense considering the client.”
“Who’s the client?”
Farriss perked up, straining his ears as he magically maneuvered the lock and slowly turned the knob, cracking the door a few inches.
“Layla Callaway,” Gerald answered.
Farriss’ frozen bones seemed to sing, rejoicing in anticipated information that may save them from further torture.
“Layla,” the woman mumbled, trying to recall the name.
Farriss held his breath, silently begging for more. When it came, flowing from the sweet woman’s tongue, a heavy weight lifted.
“Layla,” she exclaimed, “the gal that moved to the west coast.”
“Right,” Gerald confirmed.
Farriss grinned. Now that he had a solid lead to share with Agro, he would surely be blessed with a witch willing to bask in his success.
The lobby darkened, and after a short moment of silence, Farriss quietly exited the building, eager to deliver the news to Agro. His witch was on the west coast.
Chapter Four
Layla’s dreams had never been haunted by the boogeyman. Nightmares that invaded her subconscious state always came in the form of other people’s suffering, not her own.
The horrors haunting her now were no different. Her mother’s heart exploding mere seconds after giving birth to her; her father’s wistful smile as he died in a flash of agony, a final sacrifice for the daughter he loved more than life.
Having just seen these things through a magical ring imprinted with her parents’ memories, it was no wonder the sad images haunted the sleep that followed. What came next, however, wasn’t a manifestation of memories.
Even in her unconscious state, Layla understood this, as her perception shifted the moment her dad’s world went black. No longer was she an outsider looking in, bodiless and still. Now she was flesh and bone, her veins swelling with blood that roared from a pounding heart. Her senses erupted, ripping her out of a sea of sorrow and into a flood of fire. The flames swelled around her, spitting and flickering – burning tongues starving for flesh. Smoke stung her eyes and irritated her throat, and terrified shrieks filled her ears, piercing both head and heart.
“Layla.”
“Quin,” she gasped, and his mas
culine scent filled her lungs, soothing her like a steaming cup of coffee on Christmas morning. The flames faded, taking the terrifying screams with them, and comfortable warmth surrounded her in the form of brawny biceps.
Awake but confused, Layla tried to recall falling asleep. Every muscle ached, especially her heart, and she wasn’t sure of her surroundings, only that she was wrapped in Quin Kavanagh’s hug. The tender skin of her eyelids was swollen, and it took four blinks to erase the blurriness. When her vision cleared, she found Quin’s white t-shirt.
Oh god. She’d blubbered all over him.
“I’m sorry I woke you,” he offered, “but you seemed alarmed.”
Layla tried to figure out where her hands were, and had to wiggle a pinky to do it. They were wedged between her chest and his stomach, and her fingers clutched his shirt. When she opened her mouth to speak, a rough cough scraped her itchy throat.
Quin leaned back and reached for her face, dislodging the onyx spirals stuck to her cheeks. “How do you feel? Need anything?”
“Water,” she croaked.
A glass of water appeared in his hand. Then he eased her into a sitting position and passed it over. “Anything else?”
“No. Thank you.”
She scanned her surroundings as she drained the cup. They were in her parents’ bedroom, which now belonged to her. When she’d first seen it, right before experiencing their memories, she’d gotten the feeling they were reflected in its taste. Now she knew they were. They’d built it bit by bit with magic and extraordinary talent.
Layla squeezed her eyes shut on threatening tears. How were there any left?
She tapped her fingernails on the glass as she stifled the waterworks. Then she opened her eyes and passed the cup to Quin.
The dish vanished, and he took her jaw, catching a rogue tear with his thumb. “How do you feel?”
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