by Annie Bellet
But Angela wouldn’t be going to Damon. Connor let the illusion he had constructed melt away, and stared at himself in the mirror. It would be hard, standing by while his brother went through with his plan, but Connor knew in this case inaction was the only logical move.
And of course, there was the little problem of how Angela was going to react to the whole situation. He doubted she was going to be thrilled by being torn away from her family and brought to enemy territory.
Almost without thinking, he let his features shift to those of his brother. Black eyes stared at him out of the mirror, framed in a hawkishly handsome face. Widowed he might be, but Damon didn’t exactly lack for female companionship, although all those relationships were casual and short-term by design. Even the young women who took his classes tended to get a little moony-eyed in his presence. What if Angela had the same reaction? What if she actually turned out to be disappointed that Connor was the one truly intended for her, and that Damon wasn’t her consort?
No, Connor couldn’t believe that. If nothing else, Damon had almost fourteen years on Angela.
His face became his own again, smoother, not as harsh as his brother’s, and Connor frowned. He hated doing this. Unfortunately, he didn’t see any way to get out of it.
He still didn’t know where all this was going to end up, but he did know one thing.
He would finally get a real-life glimpse of Angela McAllister.
***
Of course Damon had to give Connor all kinds of instructions — stay as far away from any McAllisters as possible without seeming obvious, don’t do anything to draw attention to yourself, don’t drink too much.
At that last, Connor raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t think I was going down there for a wine tasting.”
“Well, from the write-up I saw on the Cottonwood website, it sounds as if that’s a big part of the art walk,” Damon replied. “So be careful, all right?”
Connor nodded and then got out of there soon afterward, escaping Flagstaff and heading down the winding highway that led first into Sedona and then farther into the Verde Valley. He’d been to Sedona before, of course, since that was neutral territory, controlled by neither of the two clans who otherwise split northern Arizona between them. And he’d painted plenty of times in Oak Creek Canyon, allowing himself a measure of peace and quiet away from his brother’s overbearing presence and the expectations of the clan.
But he couldn’t linger in the canyon, enticing as that prospect sounded. His destination was still a good twenty miles away, a large chunk of it through tourist-crowded Sedona.
Eventually he made it out the other side of town and was driving along the open highway. Despite the tension that seemed to be pulling the muscles in his neck tighter and tighter, Connor found himself surveying the landscape with interest. He’d never been this far out before. Neutral territory ended at Sedona’s city limits, and he’d already passed those a few minutes earlier. Now he was on McAllister land, even though it didn’t really feel any different.
The red rocks of Sedona were behind him, and out here the country rolled gently, the grasses golden in the light of the setting sun. It was already almost hidden behind the mountains to the west, which were a black bulk looming above the landscape.
Not completely black, though. A few lights began to wink, halfway up the dark shoulder of the mountainside, and he realized that must be Jerome itself perched there, seeming to defy gravity.
An odd little twinge went through him at the sight. Connor couldn’t even say exactly what caused it. Maybe just finally seeing the place after hearing about it for so many years?
Maybe. The source of that twinge really didn’t matter, though, as Jerome wasn’t his current destination. No, his journey would end a few miles from here, in Cottonwood’s Old Town district.
His gaze flickered up toward the rearview mirror, and he saw a flash of blue eyes there, the reflection of his false visage. He didn’t really look like anyone in particular, although he’d sort of borrowed the shape of his mouth from a college friend. The important thing was that he didn’t look anything like Connor Wilcox.
Cars moved slowly down Main Street as he approached Old Town. The parking lots appeared mostly full, and he frowned. Yes, he could always park a few blocks away if necessary, but he would be wasting precious time.
Because time was of the essence. The more involved the illusion, the less time Connor could sustain it. He’d allowed himself to look like himself until after he passed through Sedona, but the clock had begun ticking immediately afterward. He probably had about an hour at the most before he had to get back to his SUV and get the hell out of Dodge.
But he did eventually find a place to park, in a lot almost at the edge of where Cottonwood’s Old Town district petered out. He exited the car and wandered over to the sidewalk, where he stood for a moment, surveying the crowd.
To tell the truth, compared to downtown Flagstaff on a Friday or Saturday night, the place wasn’t really that busy. People moved along the sidewalks, in couples or small groups. Connor didn’t see too many singletons like himself and hoped he wouldn’t be too conspicuous.
He didn’t detect anyone with the faint glow around them that indicated someone of witch blood. On the surface, that seemed like a good thing, but what if it turned out that Angela had decided not to come after all?
Then at least you’ll have had a chance to see Cottonwood, he told himself. Better than nothing.
Although he had to admit there wasn’t all that much to see. The place had a certain charm — he could tell some effort and expense had been expended to update the buildings, and the wine-tasting rooms seemed to be doing a brisk business — but he could have found a lot more to amuse himself back home in Flagstaff.
But then a couple in their late thirties or early forties, the woman in a long spangled skirt, came around the corner, and Connor immediately saw the faint glow of witchlight around them. He stiffened, sure they would detect him as well, would be able to tell right away he was an interloper in their territory. The woman would scream at him like an alien-possessed human in that horrible scene from the end of Invasion of the Body Snatchers or something, and a horde of McAllisters would descend and drag him off to their equivalent of a dungeon, or wherever they put invading Wilcox warlocks.
Actually, though, none of that happened. The man and woman passed him by, discussing whether they thought Bocce — whatever that was — would be too crowded, and didn’t spare him a second glance.
Connor let out a breath. No matter what Damon might have said about being careful, he needed a drink after that.
A few doors down was the Arizona Stronghold tasting room. Music drifted out onto the sidewalk, someone playing a steel-string guitar. The music wasn’t intrusive, though, but rather welcoming. Connor followed the sound and went inside.
People occupied most of the available seats, and one corner seemed to be taken up by a bearded artist working on a decent oil representation of a monsoon storm, but some space remained at the bar. He pushed himself up to it, glanced briefly at the offerings, and ordered a glass of a red blend called Nachise. Maybe having a whole glass wasn’t entirely wise. However, a tasting would take too long, and he didn’t want to linger here. A quick sweep of the room told him he was the only one with witch-blood in attendance. If Angela McAllister really had come down to the art walk, she wasn’t at Arizona Stronghold.
When it arrived, the wine was good, with overtones of blackberries and not too much in the way of tannins. He drank it quickly and with less respect than he would have liked, but he didn’t have time to linger and savor the glass he’d ordered. Without waiting for the tab, he dropped a ten down on the bar and headed back out to the street.
Where to go next? Across the street he saw two tasting rooms almost side by side, and decided to go to the nearer one. When he entered, he had to keep himself from stopping in the doorway and staring.
She was here.
The shock of seeing her
in person made him want to stare, to drink in details he hadn’t noticed in his dreams — how delicate her hands were, or the way her eyes almost seemed to flash emerald as the lights overhead caught them. But he knew he couldn’t gaze at her the way he wanted to, that he had to act as if her presence wasn’t deserving of any particular note.
She stood at the far end of the bar, a pretty girl with long blonde hair next to her. But Connor could only see Angela, see the telltale glimmer of white light all around her for a few glorious seconds before it faded away.
Angela and her friend were talking with some animation, the blonde gesturing with such abandon that she almost smacked the wine glass out of the hand of the man who stood by them. Scowling, he scooched a few inches away, and Connor had to keep from chuckling.
For the barest second, he could feel Angela’s gaze pass over him, but then she immediately returned her attention to her friend. Disappointment stirred within, although Connor reminded himself that he’d made his false appearance purposely ordinary so he wouldn’t attract too much attention. He didn’t want Angela staring at him. That wasn’t the point of this operation.
And what is the point? he asked himself as he took a spot at the other end of the bar, where a couple had just paid their tab and walked out.
Well, to see if he could slip in under the McAllisters’ radar. And so far, the spell seemed to be working. Surely Angela would have shown some sort of reaction if she’d recognized him as a fellow witch. She had to be strong, or she wouldn’t have been designated as her clan’s next prima. But apparently she wasn’t strong enough to see through one of Damon’s special-order spells. To be fair, it was subtle enough — Damon had only murmured a few words under his breath and passed a hand over Connor’s head. Nothing felt any different, but clearly the spell was doing its job at blocking his witch nature.
He ordered another glass of red wine, choosing it at random from the list provided. What he drank wasn’t of importance here; being in the same room with Angela was. The temptation to stare at her seemed almost overwhelming, but he forced himself to look elsewhere, at the paintings by local artists hanging on the walls, at the person off to one side doing quickie chalk portraits of some of the tasting room’s patrons.
But as he did so, he also allowed himself another quick glance in her direction as well. He noted her straight, pretty nose, and the delicious fullness of her lower lip. That was a mouth made for kissing if he ever saw one.
The guy working behind the bar brought him his wine right then, so Connor had to pretend to be interested in that, rather than the young woman so tantalizingly close and yet separated from him by a gulf he didn’t know could ever be bridged. Again, the wine was good enough when he tasted it, but he wished he could be sharing it with her, rather than standing here by himself and pretending that all he wanted was to wander between tasting rooms and sample their wares.
If he was going to be objective about the situation, he might have admitted that Angela’s companion was the one who should really be attracting attention, with her long blonde hair and the impressive amount of cleavage her low-cut, tight-fitting T-shirt currently showed off. But Angela had a subtler beauty, the kind you wanted to stare at so you could keep finding nuances and details you hadn’t noticed before.
Connor wished he could paint her. Portraits weren’t generally his thing — he almost always did landscapes — but right then his fingers itched for a paintbrush so he could attempt to do some justice to the clear porcelain skin, the arched eyebrows, the curve of those luscious lips, with that faint quirk in the corners, as if she was smiling at some private joke.
That was never going to happen, though. After that one brief glance, she hadn’t even looked back in his direction. He supposed he should have been relieved by her lack of interest. He wasn’t here to approach her, only to test Damon’s spell, which appeared to be working perfectly. No real surprise there; Damon’s spells always worked, once he’d figured out how to build them. As no doubt he’d unravel the spell that was still giving him trouble, the one that would mask a Wilcox’s identity so he could get past the wards protecting the small hillside town of Jerome.
Protecting Angela.
Connor wondered then why Damon would bother with getting into Jerome at all, since this current dry run seemed to indicate that a Wilcox could get pretty close to the future prima without anyone noticing. Then again, this was Damon Wilcox he was talking about; Connor’s brother had always been one for the grand gesture, and stealing Angela from the heart of Jerome would be a lot more impressive than merely snatching her up while she was shopping at the local Walmart or something.
That was neither here nor there, though. Connor pulled his cell phone from his pocket and checked the time. He wasn’t pushing the limits yet, but he shouldn’t linger. Clearly, he was just another civilian to Angela, another ordinary face in the crowd.
If she only knew….
Once again he laid a ten down on the counter, then turned to go. For just a second, he hesitated, gaze straying toward the end of the bar. And for just a second, Angela’s eyes met his.
She frowned, head tilting to one side as if something had troubled her. Connor’s blood went cold. Had his borrowed appearance slipped somehow? Had she seen past the illusion?
But then she seemed to shrug, and picked up her wine and returned her attention to her friend. Connor took advantage of the reprieve to hurry out the door and walk as quickly as he could without attracting attention to the spot where his SUV waited. He didn’t exactly gun it as he fled the parking lot, but neither did he worry too much about the posted speed limit.
No one pursued him. He kept going, heading out to the highway. Whatever Angela might or might not have seen or felt, it appeared that she intended to let it go.
Even so, it was only after he’d passed the Sedona city limits sign that Connor allowed himself a sigh of relief.
***
Damon was pleased by the report Connor delivered the next morning. Of course he was; the success of the experiment removed yet another hurdle to the culmination of all his plans — Angela McAllister here in Wilcox territory, her powers irrevocably joined to theirs.
“We’re close,” he said. “Very close. But we don’t want to make a move too soon. There’s a time and a place for all these things.”
Connor rather doubted there was ever a good time to kidnap someone, but he only nodded. Long ago he’d realized that arguing with his brother never got him anywhere. Sure, he’d make a token protest from time to time, but Damon did tend to be the irresistible force. And Connor knew he sure as hell wasn’t the immovable object. At least not yet. He had to act as if he was going along with Damon’s plans, even though they must ultimately come to nothing.
“So what now?” he asked, tone deliberately casual.
“Watch and wait for an opening. I still have to work on the spell to get past their wards. We’ll need to test it, once I have the bugs worked out.”
Which meant Connor would get to be the guinea pig once more. He was the only one in the clan with the power to change his own appearance. Other Wilcox clan members had some facility with illusions, but their powers only worked on inanimate objects, not people, which didn’t do too much good when you were trying to infiltrate the territory of a bunch of hostile witches.
Well, he’d survived doing that very thing the night before, so he supposed he could survive it again. And all right, as far as he could tell, the only witches in attendance at the Cottonwood art walk had been that one couple he’d sensed and Angela herself, but still. No other Wilcox had dared set foot in that town since his grandfather Jasper had attempted to kidnap the McAllister prima-in-waiting way back in the late ’40s.
That maneuver hadn’t gone so well, but apparently Damon didn’t pay much attention to that old maxim about those who didn’t learn the lessons of history being doomed to repeat it.
Connor gave a casual nod, since it seemed obvious enough that his brother expected some sort of a
reply. “Sounds good. So you’ll let me know when it’s time to try again?”
“Yes.” For just the briefest second, Damon’s expression was almost approving. “I know I can always count on you.”
Of course he could. In that moment, Connor experienced a spasm of self-loathing. Just once, he wished he could tell his brother to go to hell, even though showing such contempt for the clan’s primus was unthinkable. Besides, such an act of defiance wouldn’t make any difference in the long run. Damon would probably just laugh.
Connor doubted his brother would be laughing once he discovered this particular joke was on him.
But at least he was able to make his escape then, heading back into Flagstaff’s downtown section where his apartment was located. Once Connor had shut the door and locked it behind him — not that locks meant much where witches were concerned — he leaned against the solid, reassuring wooden surface and let out a long breath.
How long did they have, really? A few months; Angela McAllister would turn twenty-two in December, and she’d need to be in Damon’s hands before that happened, or all his plans would be for naught. A young woman destined to be the next prima had to bond with her soul mate during her twenty-first year, or she would never develop her full powers, the one thing Damon desired above all else, because bonding with her meant that he would be nearly invincible.
At least, Connor hoped her inborn powers were the only reason Damon wanted Angela, that he hadn’t developed some sort of unholy lust for the young woman. The mere thought of them being together as true consorts was enough to make Connor almost physically ill.
But that wouldn’t happen. He wouldn’t let it happen. Hers was the face that haunted his dreams, which meant they were intended to be together. Why else would he have kept seeing her over and over again, when he’d never met her in person? For whatever reason, the universe seemed to be saying that Angela should be his, and all of Damon’s scheming couldn’t get in the way of that.
Shutting his eyes, Connor summoned her image, envisioning the fall of cloudy dark hair around her delicate face, the faint dimple that appeared in one cheek as she laughed at one of her friend’s jokes. Even though he could have drawn her from memory, he still made himself visualize every feature, every detail. The face that floated in his mind’s eye seemed almost as real as the girl herself. He wished he could reach out and touch her hair, stroke her cheek. But she wasn’t real, was only an illusion he had summoned in his mind.