Were Rozaline’s words a warning to me? Was I not meant for this life?
I quietly pondered the events of the last month.
Each time, I had been spared. Maybe I am meant for this life.
I had spent so much time cursing this changes in my life, never really considering the gift that I had been given.
Time to quit fighting things. I need to accept what I am. Maybe, unlike Damon and Jessie, I was meant to be a vampire.
The sliding glass door opened, and Lysander stepped outside.
“Not disturbing you, am I?” He gave me a cheerful smile. The tips of his fangs poked down below his lips.
Being a vampire wasn’t so bad.
I smiled back. “No. Not at all. Please, join me.” I patted the spot next to me on the futon mattress.
Lysander sat down immediately, putting his arm around me.
“How are you holding up?”
“I’m good. I feel safe now.” I always feel safe in your arms.
“Good.” He pulled me close.
“Rozaline told me you went a little crazy when Jessie showed up.”
“I’m sorry I let you go out with her that night. I should have protected you better.”
“No, it’s okay. Everything ended well, and I have you to thank for that.”
“You’re starting to sound like Rozaline, now,” he chuckled.
His hand moved up and down my arm, gently stroking my skin.
“Well, she is a smart lady.”
“Hopefully you will be around as long as she’s been.”
Blood rushed to my face.
“You are very important to me,” he continued. “I don’t ever want to lose you. You don’t know how much you mean to me.”
I turned to face him, heat spreading to my face.
“You have brought me happiness. You’ve allowed me to accept love into my life again.”
“Lysander, you’re the one who has saved me. All I do is get into trouble—”
His hand rose, covering my lips.
“It is because of you, and the trouble you’ve brought into my life, that I am smiling today. You’ve given more purpose to live than I have had in centuries. You are a troublemaker, the wrecking ball of my life, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
I smiled behind his hand and used my own to move his away.
“I think we’ve both wrecked one another’s ‘normal lives.’”
“Then let us rebuild a new life, together.” He pulled me in close and his lips met mine. “We can concentrate on the fun parts of immortality.”
I rolled over, straddling him on the futon.
“I’m ready to learn.” I said with a smile.
* * *
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About Katie Salidas
Las Vegas native, Katie Salidas is a Jill of all trades. Mother to three, Wife to one, and slave to the craft of writing, she tries to do it all, often causing sleep deprivation and many nights passed out at the computer. Author of the Immortalis series, Chronicles of the Uprising, and various other paranormal works; writing is her passion, and she hopes that her passion will bring you hours of entertainment.
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A DOSE OF BRIMSTONE by NOREE COSPER
END OF DREAMS by KIM FAULKS
HAUNT by HEATHER HAMBEL CURLEY
DARK CROSSINGS by ANN SIMKO
HEADSPACE by CALINDA B
THE OTHER F WORD by SUSAN STEC
UNLEASHED by RACHEL MCCLELLAN
HIDDEN INTENTIONS by STACY CLAFLIN
THE COMPLETE BLOODLING SERIAL by AIMEE EASTERLING
SHE WHO FIGHTS MONSTERS by KYOKO M
ST. CHARLES AT DUSK by SARAH M. CRADIT
WICKED BY NATURE by MADISON SEVIER
UNDERLIFE by MARISSA FARRAR
DRAGON’S REDEMPTION by EDEN ASHE
MILAN’S RETURN by GRAE LILY
THE BREAKERS CODE by CONNER KRESSLEY
THE MEDIUM by MR GRAHAM
WICCAN WARS by HEATHER MARIE ADKINS
CARPE NOCTEM by KATIE SALIDAS
A QUESTION OF FAITH by NICOLE ZOLTACK
A QUESTION OF FAITH
Magic Incarnate Book One
BY NICOLE ZOLTACK
Copyright © 2016 by Nicole Zoltack
It’s not everyday you learn you’re the incarnation of magic.
After learning her birth mother sought the help of witches to conceive her, fifteen-year-old Crystal’s previously unwavering faith is shaken. God hasn’t been answering her prayers like she thought–she was.
Crystal’s limitless magical potential is put to the test when her boyfriend’s mother is in a life-threatening accident. Surely God won’t mind her using magic to help people, but the miraculous outcome leaves Crystal wondering what she is capable of and worrying that her magic will damn her to Hell or, worse, prove she has no soul to condemn.
After her aunt is threatened, Crystal sets out to master her power, but flying and conjuring fireballs attracts dangerous attention. A witch hunter kidnaps her boyfriend, and shamans and witches hunt Crystal, desperate to use her to end a centuries-old war between the supernatural races. Her magic is an uncontrollable time bomb. If Crystal can’t figure out what she’s capable of, she won’t just fail to protect those she loves and end the war—she might start the apocalypse.
Copyright 2016 by Nicole Zoltack
Published in the United States of America
Publish Date: 2016
Cover Artist: Sylvia Frost
Cover Art Copyright by 2016
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information retrieval and storage system without permission of the publisher.
Ebooks are not transferrable, either in whole or in part. As the purchaser or otherwise lawful recipient of this ebook, you have the right to enjoy the novel on your own computer or other device. Further distribution, copying, sharing, gifting or uploading is illegal and violates United States Copyright laws.
Pirating of ebooks is illegal. Criminal Copyright Infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, may be investigated by the Federal Bureau of Investigation and is punishable by up to five years in federal prison and a fine of up to $250,000.
Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination, or are used in a fictitious situation. Any resemblances to actual events, locations, organizations, incidents or persons – living or dead – are coincidental and beyond the intent of the author.
Chapter 1
OUR ATTIC DOOR is always padlocked. Always. Mom does it to keep the mice up there. We don’t exact have the money for an exterminator, and since mice freak me out like snakes do Indiana Jones—which is a more legit fear, I know—and Mom’s not the bravest either, lock it is.
I stand beneath it in the upstairs hallway. Never really gave it much thought before, but it’s ugly, if you ask me.
“Crystal, there you are. I’m off to the bakery. Want to come?” She brushes strands of dyed strawberry blonde hair behind her shoulder with her small fingers.
I shake my head, surprised she’s giving me a choice. “I’ll pass.”
Her lips purse.
�
��Come on. I’m turning sixteen in two days. Don’t you trust me? I mean, you’ll be gone, what, a half hour?” I follow her to the kitchen.
“Of course I trust you.” She tousles my short chocolate brown hair and grabs her purse from the counter.
“Then it’s past time you leave the house in my very capable hands.” I grin and stare out the window above the sink. It’s a beautiful Saturday, the buds on the apple trees promising warm spring breezes and sunny days. The sun catcher I painted years ago hangs from the top corner of the window, a butterfly so faded and sad-looking I can’t believe Mom keeps it. “Besides, it’s almost time for Vince’s cookout.”
Her eyes narrow in a disapproving way. “Didn’t you mention you have a report due soon?”
“Yep.” I rub the worn spots on the counter. “A huge one for Mr. William’s class. Lydia and I were assigned The History of Witches. I wanted to do it on religion versus magic, but he vetoed it, said it wouldn’t be impartial.”
“Some people do consider themselves witches.”
I can’t help my scoff. “Magic’s just a bunch of stupid hocus pocus mumbo jumbo.”
Mom straightens the sun catcher, her lips a thin line that relaxes when she chuckles. “Impartial, huh?”
My cheeks grow hot, and I look away, fingering a not quite ripe apple in the fruit bowl on the counter.
“Have you finished it?” she asked.
“Just about.” It needs to be typed up. Lydia and I haven’t decided who gets that honors yet.
“I really shouldn’t let you go to the barbeque without having your report done… Just make sure you finish it in time. I’m off,” she says with a waggle of a short index finger.
We hug, and I walk out to the small living room and watch as she leaves. Wow. Almost can’t believe I’m here alone. She’s the world’s most overprotective mom. We might not have a lot, but we have each other.
Geez, that’s sweet enough that we don’t need desserts.
Chuckling, I head back upstairs to the hallway and pause beneath the attic door. Wonder if she braved the mice to hide my birthday presents up there.
Speaking of, her birthday is coming up too. She’s a little behind on paying me my meager allowance—actually, I think she owes me for an entire year. I slip inside her room. Maybe she has a few extra dollars in here. I’m not that crafty so making her something is out. Besides, she deserves something nice.
My gaze falls on the tip of a tan heel poking out from beneath her bed. It’s the only pair of her shoes I like. I pull out the heel, dig around for its mate, knock over the ugliest boot in the world—can’t count the number of times I’ve told Mom to get rid of them, that it’s almost a sin to wear something so tacky—and hear a faint sound. Puzzled, I stick my hand inside and remove a small, metal object. A key.
Unable to stop staring at it, I abandon my search for the other heel and for money and return to the hallway. Sure enough, the key fits into the attic padlock, and the stairs descend into the hallway like a lolling tongue from a dark mouth.
A sudden gust of wind leaves me shiver. The thought of spying makes my stomach churn. My conscious is a little overactive. Mom’s trusting me for the first time ever, and what do I do? Try to find some money—albeit for a good reason—and contemplate sneaking into the attic.
The mice. It’s not worth it. Just thinking about them freaks me out.
I’m ready to right everything, to put the stairs back up and lock the attic again, when a sudden thought comes to me. What if there aren’t any mice? What if Mom just doesn’t want me to go up there?
For fifteen years? What secret could be that big?
Curiosity isn’t a sin, right?
Seconds later, I find myself in the stuffy, cramped attic. The tiny bulb hanging from a wire barely illuminates the small area. I rub my nose and promptly sneeze. The light fizzles and burns out.
Lovely. Refusing to see this as a sign that I should stop snooping, I stumble back to the stairs and retrieve a light bulb from the top of the refrigerator. Quick as I can—Mom will be back soon—I change the bulb, but the place still isn’t that bright.
Boxes and books litter the room. The first box contains old tests from grade school. Mom’s such a pack rat! I’ll be lucky to find anything worthwhile.
If there is anything worthwhile besides mice.
Hugging myself, I glance around and listen hard. No peeps. No scratching of tiny feet on the wooden floor. Not a sound but my raspy breathing and the faint hum of electricity from the light bulb. There isn’t a hint of mice traps or droppings or mice anywhere.
I give a huge sigh of relief for that, although I’m even more curious now. If Mom lied about the mice, she must be hiding something.
A bunch of books are stacked beside some boxes. The Ultimate Witches’ Guide to Potions, Herbs, and Rituals. Book of Spells. Magic and Its Healing Properties. Witchcraft, Magic, and More.
Why would Mom have this stuff? I flip through the top book. In the margin of a love potion spell, I recognize Mom’s practically illegible scribbling. Squinting forces the marks into letters and words I can decipher—something about an ingredient being extinct. She actually thinks magic is real? Why didn’t she say anything when we were just talking about it?
Because you aren’t impartial about it, a part of me reasons.
Or because she doesn’t want you to know.
Believing in the possibility of magic is one thing. That I could accept. But trying spells?
Maybe I shouldn’t fault her for being curious, especially since that’s why I’m up here in the first place.
I slam the book shut and drop it onto the others. Dust billows everywhere. Coughing, I wave it away and notice a box half hidden in the darkest corner of the attic. My interest piqued, I drag it into the light.
A name is written on the top in Mom’s chicken scratch. Marian Wynter.
Who’s that?
Someone Mom doesn’t want me to know.
My heart pounds furiously as I flip open the flaps and shift through the mounds of paperwork. A picture falls out. An old newspaper article catches my eye. “Car crash kills mother, baby safe.”
I sink to my knees and read the article. Marian Wynter’s brakes stopped working during a snowstorm, and she died in the resulting crash when her car slammed headfirst into a large snow bank. The driver of the car behind her witnessed the whole thing and tried to save her, but she had died instantly. The baby, only seven months, survived.
Marian Wynter was survived by her daughter Crystal, her brother Richard Miller and his wife Patricia.
I stare at the words so long they swim before my eyes. This can’t mean what I think it does… That Marian Wynter is my birth mother. And my mom is really my aunt.
I grew up thinking my last name was Miller.
I’m not Crystal Miller.
I’m Crystal Wynter.
Mom has been hiding a secret up here all right. A secret fifteen years in the making.
Chapter 2
MY THOUGHTS FLY around, fuming, hostile, like buzzing bees startled from their nest. Mom isn’t my birth mother. She lied to me. Kept secrets. I have nothing of my birth mom’s. No memories. Just this one picture.
I stare at it. A tall man flashes a broad smile, white salting the sides of his dark hair. He looks young though, prematurely whitening. The woman beside him wears the same big grin. Her chocolate brown hair touches her shoulders, and her soft brown eyes are more turned toward the man than the camera. Her hair, her eyes, the tilted smile…
It’s as if I’m looking in the mirror at an older version of myself.
Any doubt I might have been trying to form withers away.
All these years, I thought I looked like my dad, that that was why I didn’t look like my mom. Actually, I am the spitting image of my mom, my real mom. I’m dying to know more about Marian.
I never even knew Dad… Richard… had a sister. What other secrets has Mom been keeping from me?
As much as I feel bet
rayed, I also feel like I’m breaking my bond with Mom. Patricia. She’s been a true mother to me all these years. When I was five, I saw a special on TV about Jesus. Ever since, religion fell into my lap. Although she isn’t a strong believer, Mom pulled me out of my public school kindergarten and struggled to afford to send me to a Catholic school. My high school is public because there’s no way she can afford that. She worked so hard to give me what I wanted, even though it wasn’t something we shared.
Turns out, there’s a lot more we don’t share—our blood.
A witch book teeters from the top of the stack and thuds onto the floor. That’s why Patricia doesn’t have faith. Because she thinks witches and magic exist.
Talk about weirdness to the max.
I glance at my watch. “Mom” should be back any minute now. These mixed-up and confused feelings—I don’t have time to process them now.
After carefully tucking the photo into my jean pocket, I smuggle the Marian Wynter box down the steps, close and lock the attic, return the key to its hiding place, and carry the box to my room.
A knock on my closed door has me scrambling to find a spot to stash it. I toss the box into my closet and shut it right before my mom—my aunt—enters.
“I have goodies.” She holds out the box. “Two cupcakes. Do you want yours now?”
It takes a moment for me to respond. A part of me—a huge part—wants to ask her about Marian, but what’s to say she won’t deny everything, that she’ll finally tell me the truth after all this time? Considering she had the perfect opportunity to talk to me about witches the last time we spoke and she didn’t, I have no reason to think she’ll start sharing the true with me now.
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