Tonight and Forever Magical Romances Boxed Set

by D'Alessandro, Jacquie

  Abia sank onto a stool at the potions bar. She’d certainly made a mistake by allowing the cop to get his hand on her as she’d cast the spell to shift from his world to hers, but there were graver matters at hand than a stray caporal. “A complication.”

  Malburn’s light green eyes, identical to her own, widened as he approached Westin, who was frozen as a statue, one hand still holding the metal object caporal law enforcers used as weapons. “He’s quite large, isn’t he?”

  The contrast between her uncle, who didn’t reach five feet even in heeled slippers, and Nick Westin, who was a solid 6’2”, was nearly comical, but then strength wasn’t about size—at least not in her world.

  Abia made an effort to give Westin’s broad shoulders only a passing glance and avoided his striking face completely. “He’s a New York City cop. I expect a certain physicality is part of the job.”

  “You’re attracted to him.”

  “I am not.” By the Sacred Queen, Westin could still hear. “Could we get to the matter at hand and deal with him later?” Abia laid the dagger on the bar. “Hide it. Better this time,” she added after a considering pause.

  “Sarcasm, my dear, isn’t befitting to a woman of your station.”

  “Yeah, sure. Just make it go poof.”

  “Poof.” Malburn shook his head in weary disappointment. “Young witches these days. No respect for the old ways.”

  Despite his lack of approval for her progressive attitude, he flicked his wand over the dagger, and it vanished in a puff of smoke.

  Abia let out the breath she’d been mentally holding for nearly a week. Four down, three to go...

  Gleefully, Malburn clapped his hands together. “Excellent. Now, back to our visitor. There’ve been some excellent advancements in research on the non-mystic.”

  “Caporal, Uncle. Talk about ignoring tradition.”

  “Non-mystic is much more flattering, don’t you think?” Malburn pursed his lips. “Politically correct, as his people would say. As I was saying about the advancements...”

  “Do these advancements involve the subject bursting into flames?”

  “Really, Abia.” Her uncle planted his hands on his narrow hips. “That was over two hundred years ago.”

  From behind her, Westin made a sound of protest.

  Abia surged to her feet, her wand extended. “I cast a Statue spell. He shouldn’t be able to move or speak.”

  “Fascinating.” Malburn shuffled toward Westin, peering at him like a tourist might a caged animal at the city zoo. “How do you suppose he’s doing that?”

  “No idea.” She kept a tight hold on her wand. “Keep back.”

  Malburn chuckled. “Really, Abia,” he repeated.

  As her uncle had been a front-line battle commander of more than a few mystical wars, she supposed her order had been somewhat high-handed. But since the last one had been more than a hundred years ago, his reflexes couldn’t possibly be as sharp as hers. Besides, witches and wizards her age—a mere thirty-two—had spent their lives in peace, so it wasn’t a state to be relinquished easily.

  Westin’s observance of her in the alley was the real troubling factor. How could he possibly have detected her presence, much less seen her so clearly?

  The whole night had been strange.

  And it was time to find out why.

  She reached into Westin’s jacket pocket, did not let her hand stray from her goal to find out how firm his body might be, and pulled out his identification. He was who he’d said he was. That was some comfort. Based on the anomalies of the last hour, she’d begun to wonder if any spell she’d cast was valid, and Confession was one of the trickiest.

  “Speak,” she ordered.

  “Really, Abia.”

  Conceding her uncle’s rebuke, Abia waved her wand again, allowing Westin movement from the waist up. “How are you, Lieutenant?”

  “What the hell happened?” Westin asked, his face red with fury. His silver eyes turned dark, like a gathering thunderstorm. He flexed his fingers around the metal weapon. “Who’re you?”

  “Oh, dear.” Malburn’s brow furrowed. “I hope you didn’t damage him permanently. The journey to our world can be taxing the first time.”

  At least he’s not on fire, Abia thought. “How did you find me?” she demanded of Westin. “You’re not a mystic.”

  Clearly confused—and who could blame him—Westin shook his head. “Mystic? Like crystal balls and chanting?”

  She exchanged a look with her uncle. Nope. No significant powers in this one.

  Malburn pressed his lips together.

  Reserving judgement. How like him.

  “So how did you find me?” she asked Westin.

  “You were sneaking out the back door of an apartment building at one a.m. wearing an outfit any burglar would be proud to have in his wardrobe.”

  But she’d cast a Shadow spell. Even the most observant caporal would have seen only a flicker in the darkness. The whole incident was impossible...unless the Queen’s missing scepter was already affecting their powers.

  The very concept was terrifying.

  Arrogantly, as one of the most powerful warrior witches in the mystical world, Abia had assumed her abilities wouldn’t falter until the last.

  And she had no intention of letting the crisis get that far.

  Damn that horrible sorcerer Gardiff and his lust for power. Couldn’t he simply enjoy creating crystals with the rest of his kind?

  Though, if she was completely honest with herself—and she always was—she had to admit Gardiff wasn’t the only one caught in the throes of desire.

  Lieutenant Nick Westin was a wildly attractive man.

  “Ooh...” Her uncle bounced on the balls of his feet. “Maybe he’s a Crossover.”

  Abia jerked her head toward Malburn. “He can’t be. There hasn’t been one in almost three hundred years.”

  “Who are we to question the anomalies of the universe?”

  Abia stared in disbelief at her mentor, her guardian since the age of fifteen. “You’re the Queen’s chief advisor. What else would you do?”

  Malburn cleared his throat and suddenly looked every moment of his ancient years and experience. “I have a number of roles essential to Her Majesty, most of which do not involve waving a wand about in a reckless and random manner.”

  Without showing an inch of her earlier fear, Abia stood toe-to-toe with the most powerful wizard in memory. “Surely you’re not calling me reckless? I’m saving our people from—”

  “By racing off into another world where you obviously have little authority.” He made a flippant gesture to Westin. “How else could he have spotted you and arrived here?”

  Abia ground her teeth to keep her temper in check. “I have everything under control. Barely three weeks have passed, and I’ve found four of the missing—”

  “Yo!” Westin shouted from the corner of the shop. His red-faced fury communicated his immobile frustration. Clearly a physical man. “Could you two shut up for two seconds and tell me where the hell I am?”

  Relieved by the distraction, which allowed her to regain her usual control, Abia didn’t see any harm in telling him, since she’d simply erase his memory later. “In an alternate universe where mystical creatures live and rule in peace, security and, until a few minutes ago, anonymity.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  “You’re a witch?” Nick repeated, still having a hard time getting his mouth wrapped around the words.

  “Yep.”

  Though the elderly man, Malburn, had waved his own stick down Nick’s body before he’d wandered into another room to do some kind of analysis, Nick oddly felt no fear left alone with the woman. At least he’d been released from the inert state he’d somehow been startled into since arriving.

  For now, he holstered his pistol, but he was prepared to blast his way out if necessary.

  It wouldn’t be the first time.

  The woman called Abia had been told to wait for her
uncle’s analysis, and she was complying for now, though her frustration with standing by was obvious.

  Amazingly, Nick could relate. He and his captain had the same push-pull relationship when waiting for court orders. Leaning against the bar next to him, she glared at the doorway her uncle had disappeared through, but otherwise made no move to restrain him again.

  Nick glanced around the place—her uncle’s shop, apparently. It looked like an old-time book or antique store, homey in a cluttered way with dark oak floors and cabinets filled with worn leather volumes and knick-knacks. Seven-foot iron streetlights topped by flame-lit lanterns instead of glass bulbs illuminated dark corners. He sat at the long, stone-topped bar, the kind he’d bellied up to many times before except now the bottles lining the other side of the counter were exotically shaped and filled with colorful liquids that appeared to be various flavors of liquors.

  If this was a dream, it was a damn vivid one.

  Which it had to be since witches were imaginary. But Nick was curious to see how far his little fantasy might go.

  The woman—witch, whatever she was pretending to be—waved her stick, making him tense. “Drink this. It’ll help.”

  He gazed down at the glass mug that appeared. It looked and smelled like a beer.

  “It’s a beer,” she said. “Your people seem to like it.”

  He had no intention of drinking anything provided by a robbery suspect, especially a crazy one. But since arguing with her seemed like a bad idea—she’d somehow managed to shock him into immobility a few minutes ago, after all—he pointed at the rows of colorful bottles. “What if I’d rather have one of those?”

  Her beautiful face tightened with insult. “I don’t make potions. That’s for Minglers. I’m a Warrior witch.”

  “Uh huh. But Minglers are witches, too?”

  “Haven’t I just said so? They mix potions, serve food, clean, make and repair wands.”

  She shrugged off her long coat, which looked like something either a Victorian schoolmarm or Billy Idol might wear. (Hey, might as well add time travel to his hallucination!) As she paced, he couldn’t help noticing her trim figure. Her wavy, waist-length hair swished against her back as she moved. An errant curl brushed her cheek, and she impatiently tucked it behind her ear.

  He’d always had a thing for redheads. His first girlfriend, Mary Sue Camden, stole his heart in the second grade with fiery hair, freckles and a masterful understanding of how to get the cafeteria workers to hand over an extra chicken nugget at lunchtime. Considering the many lousy and always temporary relationships in-between then and now, he supposed his overworked, sleep-deprived brain had express mailed a fantasy for him to enjoy.

  What the hell. He lifted his mug in a toast. “Good to know.” Downing a mouthful of the substance, he found it tasted like any other draft pilsner. He wondered idly if the fantasy would intensify. “How many kinds of witches are there?”

  She ground to a halt. “You’re certainly curious. Most caporals would have fainted by now.”

  “Not the fainting type.”

  The gaze that swept his body was full of bold, sensual power, and he felt an answering reaction deep in his belly. “So I’ve gathered.”

  He imagined the sensations he’d feel if he could wrap himself around her body, her hair tangled on his pillow, heat consuming them...

  Quickly, he took another sip of beer. Maybe it was an aphrodisiac. This could turn out to be a really good dream.

  “There are four types of mystics,” she continued, seeming oblivious to his train of thought. “All of which can be females, witches, or males, who are called wizards.”

  When she paused, he fought to get his brain back on topic. “I read a few of the Harry Potter novels with my niece.”

  After pressing her lips together, she continued. “So there are Minglers, who I already mentioned. Protectors—like your doctors, I suppose. Academics, who focus on history and universal predictions. And Warriors, who specialize in spells and enforcement.”

  “Which ones are the most powerful?”

  She simply stared at him with those jewel-like green eyes.

  Her reaction aroused him like crazy. But as crazy was a close cousin of strange, the word of the night, he was going with the moment. “You’re a cop.”

  “Essentially, yes.”

  “So you have criminals to battle.”

  “Sorcerers seem to go bad with alarming regularity. But witches and wizards make their share of mistakes as well.”

  Sure. Why not? Vampires, werewolves and dragons were no doubt also prevalent. “Why sorcerers?”

  She shrugged. “They usually want more power.”

  “And, power-wise, what’s the difference between a witch and a sorcerer?”

  “Like the NFL and little league.”

  “That’s two different sports, not just skill levels.”

  “Exactly.”

  Though he was baffled, he was also intrigued and impressed by the details of her story. She obviously believed all she was telling him, and part of him wanted to accept her skewed version of reality, as if a beloved fairytale adventure was coming to life. Was he asleep or awake? Was she nuts? Or was all this really possible?

  “And I’m a caporal?” He paused, remembering the discussion between her and her uncle. “Or am I a Crossover?”

  “No way you’re a Crossover.”

  “Why?”

  “You’d have power in my world.”

  He had confusion, that was for sure. But he’d have to agree about the lack of power. For the moment, anyway. The comfort of his Beretta against his side wasn’t forgotten. “So caporal. Or a non-mystic, depending on your phrasing?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s a bad thing.”

  “Not bad, just different.”

  “I see.”

  “Too different,” she added with a glare that swept his body.

  Despite her overt annoyance, the sensual spark remained. He wasn’t the only one curious about why, even caught in this unusual situation, they found themselves drawn to more than verbal explanations.

  He stood, liking the fact that he towered over her. She couldn’t be more than five-six. “Too bad we’re on opposite sides.”

  “I already told you, our worlds run parallel to each other.”

  “But you took that dagger from an apartment in my city.”

  She took an aggressive step forward. “The dagger belongs to my family and was entrusted to my uncle’s care. After a sorcerer stole it, I retrieved it. I haven’t broken any of your laws.”

  Nick doubted the DA would see things that way. “Did you find the sorcerer?”

  “Not yet.” Her face flushed—in either embarrassment or anger. “I’m working on it.”

  But Nick had found his thief, and the dream he’d convinced himself he was having suddenly felt all too real. She’d made a mug of beer appear from nowhere. She’d caused them to travel from a Manhattan alleyway to a shop straight out of a Dickens novel. His vivid dreams didn’t lean to this kind of detail. Frankly, there were more naked—

  Hold everything. The thief he’d been chasing had a long string of crimes to answer for. Did witches regularly wander the city streets? “Is this the first time you’ve snuck around Midtown in the middle of the night, looking for stolen goods?”

  She stiffened. “I didn’t sneak. I searched. There are seven missing items, and I’ve found four, including the dagger.”

  “Let me guess—a brass candlestick, a silver letter opener and a gold plate.”

  Shock flickered across her face. “How did you know that?”

  He was a good cop and glad to have his instincts about the seemingly unrelated items confirmed. ‘Course he never could have imagined his hunch leading to an alternate universe.

  Dear heaven, he was starting to believe.

  “Their owners reported them stolen,” he said to Abia.

  “That’s impossible. They were hidden among other junk in the back of cupbo
ards and such.”

  “A lot of people keep their valuables hidden.”

  “But they’re not valuable. Not to your kind anyway. Besides, they’ve only been gone from our world a few weeks. The chances of those people finding all four, then reporting their absence after I took them is—”

  She stopped. The tip of her stick glowed a menacing red. It had briefly done the same thing in the alley. Right before that weird light had appeared over their heads.

  “That sneaky bastard.” Abia resumed pacing, every line in her body rigid with anger. “Gardiff hid them in your world, thinking we wouldn’t risk the Veil of Secrecy to retrieve them. Then, to make matters worse, he compelled your people to report the theft to the police. He goes too far this time. The Queen will have his wand. If he likes caporals so much, he can essentially be one.”

  The Queen? Gardiff? Veil of what? Okay, no way his imagination had come up with all that.

  He stared at the tips of his fingers. They were real. They tingled. His pulse pounded in rapid time to his heartbeat’s acceleration. His gaze shifted to the beautiful woman in front of him. She was real.

  Could all this be real?

  “Gardiff?” he asked, latching onto the least intimidating thing he’d heard.

  Abia angled her head. Did she sense the turmoil inside him? “A sorcerer. He’s what you might call a career criminal,” she said.

  Nick certainly had experience with those. Maybe their worlds weren’t so far apart after all. And if what she said was true, her problem had become his. Or maybe it was the other way around. How was he supposed to explain to his captain that he’d found the thief, but she lived in an alternate universe? How would they put out an APB on Gardiff the Sorcerer?

  You’re losin’ it, Westin.

  “Gee, I’d love to help,” he said, amused at himself for nearly believing her little tale. “But since this is my dream, I’d rather you seduce me. I could use a vacation from the job.”

  She honored him with a half smile. “This isn’t a dream, and I’m not going to seduce you.”

  “You admitted you’re the thief I’ve been looking for. Confessions are pretty dreamy for cops.”