Capturing the Last Welsh Witch

by J. M. Davies

  “Maybe Aidan knew that story from one of his ancient scrolls, I don’t know. Maybe, he was involved with the Elusti or drawn into it by association. But they won’t stop. They realize I’m not completely human and that I can become immortal. They will hunt me forever until they have what they want, which is me. Only now, they don’t want to kill me but use me.”

  “Now, hang on—immortal? How?” Marcus eased his stance and sucked in the air around him. He needed answers and although he didn’t quite buy this five-hundred-year-old soul-shifter story, he wouldn’t dismiss it yet either. How could someone go through one life after another, remembering the previous lives and how they died without going insane? His ghosts haunted him but Ella…he shook his head and stared at her as he waited for her to speak.

  “That’s another story but I’m not immortal now and it’s...”

  “Complicated,” they said in unison.

  “I need to go home to Wales.” Ella stared back at him and nodded. “I need to go. It’s where I first learned who I was and something is pulling inside of me, calling me back. I think it’s Ariana. And besides, I have to go. Something’s wrong with me, and I need to find out what.” She scrunched her face and let out a low moan.

  “Ella, what is it?” He caught her in his arms as she slouched against him weakly.

  “I think I’m dying.”

  Absorbing the story, he watched the light in her eyes flicker with a bright spark and then wane. The image of the girl in his dreams rose sharply; it was her, he could sense it, and here he was holding her in his arms. She had reached out to him in those dreams, helping him when he was sad and alone. He couldn’t deny her. Who had killed the professor and why? Ella was the innocent in this, he was certain, but why was the FBI entangled in this mess? If he could find something that proved they were working with the Elusti, that would confirm his suspicions and what he was doing would make more sense. He feared Ella was simply a pawn in a much bigger game. His body tensed as the wind moaned and his heart raced with fear for Ella. He wanted to reassure her that everything would be all right, but as he opened his mouth, the words became trapped as another image flashed into his head, which showed Ella lying in a puddle of her own blood.

  “You’re not dying, Ella. I’ll be honest: I don’t buy your story, but I’m a pretty good judge of character and I don’t believe you killed the professor, so until I know exactly what is going on, I’m sticking to you like peanut butter and jelly. Work with me. If you need to go to Wales, we’ll figure out a way to get there. This is all part of the mission and when this is over, I will walk away but you will have your freedom.”

  ****

  Philip Jackson peered out through his third-story window and watched the early evening traffic below build up along Pennsylvania Avenue. Someone honked their horn, and the elderly man crossing the road gave the taxi driver responsible the finger. Little people with little minds, he told himself. He grimaced. The average person had no idea what went on inside the walls of the J. Edgar Hoover Building. There was a war being fought, where life-and-death decisions were made every day. And he was determined that America would win that war. He pulled open the drawer in the middle of his large cherry veneer desk and snatched up a small bottle of pills. He popped one oval-shaped Xanax into his mouth and swallowed. His hand massaged his temple to ease the persistent throb. He’d been popping these pills like Tic Tacs, but they eased some of the burden of his job. A sudden gut-wrenching twist of fiery pain made him clutch his chest and he reached for the water on his desk to dampen the flames of heartburn. Loosening his tie and opening the top button of his white shirt, he plopped into his large black leather chair with a heavy sigh. Thirty minutes and then he’d find his release.

  Jackson was just so goddamn tired. He was tired of his job, the bureaucracy, and all the political bullshit that hampered any progress in putting the criminals away. Action, not words, put an end to evil. The war had become a personal agenda for him after he’d lost his wife. For a second, he closed his weary eyes, and the face that was covered in deep valleys smoothed away. Since Martha had died, his hair had thinned and turned gray almost overnight. His cell phone beeped.

  “I told you not to call me on this number. Have you completely lost your mind? I know they fucking escaped. Drayton is out playing super-agent...” Jackson stared across at the pictures of his wife, who died several years ago and although he missed her, he was grateful that she was no longer alive to see the evil that lurked in the world or the part he played in bringing those responsible to justice.

  “Look, I want her alive—do you understand? Drayton is expendable—do you hear me? Make it look like she killed him, too. Nobody will care what happens to her then. But if she’s not in custody within twenty-four hours, we’re going to do this my way and fuck all this bullshit,” the gravelly voice at the end of the phone hissed.

  “Drayton’s a threat, and I’d gladly get rid of him but he’s no idiot. He knows about the Elusti and he’s putting two and two together. I don’t know how he knows about the group or what he knows, for that matter, but he’s asking questions. His death will tie that up neatly. That’s not the problem, but if the girl is who you say she is, how will we be able to restrain her? I mean, there was a fire at her house. Markov, the agent who witnessed it, said she started it.” He swiveled his chair to look out at the early evening sky. The face of the enemy was changing and it wasn’t even human anymore.

  “Don’t worry about that. I have been working on something that will restrain her. Just set it up. Somewhere out in the open.”

  There was silence, and the caller who he only knew as Master was gone. Jackson replaced his cell back on the desk. He didn’t like some of the rumored methods that the Elusti used but they achieved results. When he’d agreed to join the covert group that was embedded deep in the government and many security agencies, he’d had his qualms. Now, several years later, and after his own wife had died on board Flight 77 that had crashed into the Pentagon on September 11, 2001, he knew he’d made the right decision. Evil had many faces. The Elusti was ruthless in their hunt for the so-called soul-shifters and yes, innocent people had been killed. But this was war and that’s what happened. Sparing a few for the greater good had always been his belief. His duty now was to his country and he intended that America would lead the world with the perfect killing machine. The Elusti was devoted entirely to developing the ultimate weapon. A soldier with incredible strength and resilience. One that could heal itself and was immortal. Imagine that. No one would be able to defeat them in battle. No one.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Seeing fear etched across Ella’s face twisted Marcus’s heart, which, until she had been around, had been cold and detached. Could she really be ill? After the talk in the garden, he helped her to walk inside as she wobbled walking on her own and he sensed an incredible weakness that hadn’t been there before. This was all they needed. Could it get any weirder? Lifting her gently into his arms, he carried her upstairs and prayed it was merely fatigue catching up with her. He placed her down on the bed and left her to rest. Maybe it was just exhaustion. The past couple of days had been grueling to say the least. Now, he couldn’t stop worrying about their next move, and whether she would be strong enough to go anywhere. Wales!

  Who was he kidding? Less than twenty-four hours ago, nothing would have come between him and his promotion. Now he wasn’t sure whether he would survive whatever was going on. He sucked a deep breath in and swore out loud. When he didn’t know the answer to a problem, he cooked, and that was why he dressed in his mother’s pink checkered apron in the kitchen and gathered all manner of ingredients from her well-stocked shelves. Twenty minutes later, he sliced onions as Ella approached but remained in the doorway to watch him. The smell of her perfume greeted him above the sting of the onions and he turned to study her more intently. A little more color filled her pale cheeks but something was off.

  “Feeling any better?” Her hair was tousled and damn if it wasn�
�t reaching below her shoulder blades. He tilted his head to the side and stared at the curls. The blue of her eyes were mixed with a streak of violet and she stared, wide awake, as she pouted and sucked on the end of her hair.

  “Depends what you mean by better. I feel strange, not myself at all but good.”

  As the words left her mouth, she waltzed into the kitchen and a rush of need made him turn away from her and face the stove. The pan sizzled with hot spitting oil. He threw the onions into the pan and steam rose as they hit the oil and hissed. There was a raspy sound to her voice, and he knew without glancing at her she was aroused. Jeez, he was only human. A low laugh escaped his lips, and finally he turned to face Ella, who hovered closely. She observed every move he made and the hairs along his neck stood up. He coughed to loosen his vocal cords, which were tight and dry.

  “Why don’t you sit down? It won’t be long; it’s only chicken and noodles. Josephine’s gone to bed, so it’ll be just us.” He tried to keep his words and tone calm and ordinary, not showing any hint of the emotions he was wrestling with but as the words left his mouth, Ella sidled up behind him and leaned into him. She crushed her breasts into his back, and spread her arms over his broad shoulders, rubbing them down his arms and clasping his hands.

  “Ella…” He kept his voice low but firm.

  “I know, I know. You only do sex. Well, that’s all I need. I need you. I cannot stop this feeling, and I need you. It’s building and building, until I want to scream and it’s driving me crazy. You’re driving me crazy.” Her voice pleaded with him. She pushed against his back, kissing his shoulder blade and moaning against him.

  His cock jerked to life with a fierce need of its own. Marcus swiveled around, and easily lifted Ella off the ground. She immediately wrapped her long legs around his waist tightly, coiling her body against his. He groaned low and it sounded feral to his own ears as he pushed her back against the white-washed stone wall and nestled his lips against the hot pulse that throbbed in her neck. She arched her body into his and made a sound like a cat purring. Waves of pure animalistic need shot through him and his hands roughly shoved the thin satin nightgown out of the way to expose a sea of unmarked silky skin. Ella wore a pink lacy bra and a barely there matching thong that dangled a diamanté in the middle. Studying her body, Marcus wet his lips, mesmerized by her sheer beauty. He met her pleading gaze, and devoured her pink lips, plunging his tongue inside to tangle with hers.

  Marcus knew he should pull back, he knew this was wrong, but his body reacted to hers as if under someone else’s control. Any rational thought evaporated. Taking his lips away from her mouth, he swiveled Ella around and laid her across the wooden kitchen table. Leaning over her, he watched as her hands snaked their way around his back to untie the apron and then they tugged his shirt out of his jeans. Ella was on fire; her skin was flushed and hot to the touch. She swiped her tongue across her plump lips and arched her body up to meet him. Marcus stared into the liquid depth of her eyes, mesmerized by the swirling pools of desire. God, she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever encountered, and hot. So damn hot.

  She sat forward impatiently and practically tore his shirt off and gasped as she stretched her hands over his abdomen and bare chest. The velvet touch of her fingers over his skin drove him wild and he couldn’t hold back much longer. Ella twisted her hands around his neck to pull him down so their bodies met and rubbed against each other, causing a delightful friction.

  Skin touched skin and a fire ripped through him. He licked his way across her collarbone and headed downward between her soft, round breasts. Quickly, he unclipped her bra as she lifted her back for him. A shiver of excitement and need gripped him as he stared at her pink, hardened nipples. He rubbed his thumb over the right hardened nub first and tweaked it, which caused Ella to let out a whimper.

  She was so responsive to his touch and he loved it. Lowering his head, he captured her nipple in his mouth and sucked it. Her skin was blazing with heat. Ella wriggled and moved her hands downward to pull at the zipper in his jeans. This was moving fast, faster than he wanted. If they were going to have sex, he wanted to savor his time with Ella because he knew he would still walk away. He would have to.

  A waft of burning onions made him lift his head. A loud ringing sounded in the kitchen and smoke billowed from the stove.

  Shit.

  Marcus jumped away from Ella, leaving her exposed and lying on the table. He raced toward the burning pan and threw it in the sink, turning the faucet on, and opened the window. With a glance back at Ella, he saw she hadn’t moved. In fact, she was still writhing on the kitchen table and her hands stroked her inner thighs, skimming the skin upward and touching herself intimately. Something wasn’t right.

  Dammit.

  He could hear footsteps run down the stairs and he charged over to Ella.

  “Ella, Ella! Come on, get dressed. Ella.” He pulled her arm and shook her, as if to wake her from the stupor she was in. As he yanked her forward, his mother walked in, wrapped in a long cream chenille nightgown, frowning.

  Josephine took one look at Ella and then Marcus, and moved quickly to Ella’s side. She lifted her hand to touch her forehead.

  “She’s burning up. We need to get her to bed. I have something that will help.”

  He wasn’t close to his mother, and at times thought he hated her, but watching her now, he was amazed at her control and the fact that he knew he trusted her. There was only so much weird he could ignore. Ella was not herself, and something was going on. If his mother could help, then he had no choice but to let her intervene. Covering Ella in her dressing gown, he lifted her body and cradled her against his chest. She didn’t resist or even seem to acknowledge his presence. He nodded at his mother and then strode out of the room, headed directly upstairs to his bedroom. He could’ve put Ella in her room but feared he would be watching over her anyway and his bed was bigger. His mother followed right behind him. Using one arm, he swept the dark-gray comforter back and lay her down against the mattress. She didn’t rouse from her semi-conscious state. His mother stepped closer and rested her hand on his shoulder and he looked at her.

  “What the hell is wrong with her?” He crouched down low and smoothed her damp hair away from her face as she twisted and thrashed about on the bed as if possessed. Her body was bathed in a thin film of sweat.

  “You mean you don’t know?”

  Marcus stood up and walked closer to his mother, who moved several feet away from the bed. A smile widened across Josephine’s face and her eyes twinkled.

  “I don’t know anything anymore, except I’m fired for sure, and in twenty-four hours, the FBI and a whole truckload of shit is going to come bursting through those doors.” His powerful frame dominated the room and his mother shook her head.

  “Marcus, there’s no need for such language. Ella is your mate, and she’s in her cycle. She needs you.” His mother’s willowy frame nudged him closer to the bed.

  “Run that by me again. She’s my mate, and she’s what?” A long sigh blew out from his clenched teeth.

  “Look, I’ll go and get you a stiff drink if it’ll help, but Ella’s been calling to you since you were a child. You two are bound together. I’ve always known that. I just wasn’t sure any of us would live to see it actually happen. You belong to her and she to you. Ella’s special. She’s lived many lives, waiting to meet her true love and being of the clan of Ariana—not only the moon goddess but the goddess of fertility—she’s effected by the cycle of the moon. Look…” Josephine pointed outside at the glowing yellow moon.

  “What?” He stared back at his mother, totally perplexed.

  “The moon is in its waxing phase and this has an effect on the lovely Ella that will reach its peak when the moon is full. It’s part of the mating cycle and not under Ella’s control. She probably has no clue either, as I doubt she has experienced this before as you’re her mate. You’re the trigger.”

  For a moment, the room shifted and spun. He
couldn’t respond or form any logical words at all. Was this yet more babble from his mother? And yet as he glanced over at the still and silent Ella, he didn’t have a clue how to proceed.

  “How? Why now in among all this sh—sorry—mess? At the coffee shop, there was nothing. I never felt so much as a spark.” Part of him was lying; there had always been something, but he was freaking out.

  Josephine rummaged around in her nightgown pocket and held up a syringe.

  “Give her this, in her thigh. It will help for tonight. I don’t have all the answers. Have you two grown closer lately, kissed perhaps? Anything that would start the cycle? Getting intimate with her mate will produce a heightened awareness and a strong, almost impossible compulsion to have sex. I know this because your father was a soul-shifter, Marcus.”

  ****

  Different faces—she saw images of her previous lives like a movie: Gwendolyn with her motherly hips, tied-back auburn hair and broad smile, always holding a bunch of herbs like thyme or some medicinal flower. Isabella was taller and much thinner, with shiny raven hair, pale and innocent, full of hope. A flash of a screaming baby—Meg coughing and making a whooping noise; she only lived fourth months. And perfect Lady Elizabeth Dempsey, with her coiffed and tightly curled hair, dressed in her beautiful pale satin gowns and riding on her beloved Arabian Spirit was like a lamb being led to the slaughter, a fate she had accepted and had little power to change. All these images converged, swimming together, crying and clawing for life. Ella twisted as she felt her neck squeezed, her back burn, her arms in agony. Gasping for air. Gasping for the pain to end as her body couldn’t take any more agony. The noise of the whip as it slashed against her skin, tearing the soft layers apart—stinging and burning. Her eyes bulging as the noose tightened. Twisted and turning, she screamed and writhed in pain and the horrific memories of all that she had endured.