“I’m sorry, James,” she managed. “It’s all my fault.” If something happened to him . . .
James twisted the steering wheel, righted the car, and they were again flying down the mountain.
If they could make it into town, Connors would have to stop the chase. He wouldn’t risk witnesses to what was either a planned murder or an abduction. Callie concentrated on protecting them as best she knew how. Too bad she didn’t already have some special power when she needed it.
Black thunderbolts rained down to strike the vehicle and were repelled by the shield, sending white-hot sparks bouncing off the protective aura. James swerved slightly but never slowed the car.
“Whatever you’re doing, it’s working,” he said.
“You know what I’m doing?”
“Not exactly. But Connors is backing off.” He checked the rearview mirror then slowed the car to the speed limit. “Let’s drive around awhile to make sure. I don’t want to take you home if he’s anywhere near.”
She looked behind and watched Connors decelerate the Cadillac to the point she lost sight of him completely.
A strained silence developed as James entered downtown. They merged into the throng of traffic without incident and still no more sign of Connors.
She took out her cell phone. “I’m going to leave Mom and Grandma Jo a message that I’ll be late, but I’m okay.”
“Why were you breaking in Connors’s office?
“It’s . . . uh . . . complicated.” She evaded. “How did you know where to find me?”
“I had an uneasy feeling, so I called Skye, and she told me you’d be at the library. Did she know you planned to break in the office?”
“It’s not like I was stealing or anything,” Callie muttered.
“Skye told me what Connors said today. What’s going on?”
“I was trying to find out why he has it in for me.”
James rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Funny, I’ve been at this school all year and I’ve never met him.”
“Skye says he’s new this semester. The old Dean had a sudden leave of absence over the holidays. Here’s what I discovered—Connors knows my father.”
James tensed beside her. “Are you sure?”
“They both wear the same unusual ring. I went in his office to get more information on who he really is and why he’s here. His datebook had my initials scribbled by my birthday.” No need to tell James about the black magic, at least not until she was out in the open with him about her own magical dabbling.
“Strange. And I don’t think you’ve told me half the story. Let’s go to our place to talk before I take you home.”
She cocked her head to one side. “I didn’t know we had a place.”
“Sure. The rock ledge on the mountain where we met.”
A warm glow lit the dark, cold place in her troubled heart. “But it’s already dark; we can’t hike up there, even with a flashlight. And my family will expect me home soon.”
“Trust me,” James said.
She did. Totally. Even if he had his secrets like she had hers. He’d already saved her ass this afternoon.
James abruptly pulled the car over to the side of the road.
“What are we doing now?”
He didn’t answer, but came around to the passenger door and lifted her out of the seat and into his arms. “Do roller coasters make you dizzy?”
She shook her head.
“Then this shouldn’t bother you. Hold on tight.” With those words of warning, he ran.
It was faster than a roller coaster and twice as scary. James ran like a dervish. Tree branches swayed when he sped by. The darkness didn’t slow him. He unerringly avoided tree roots and low-lying branches.
It wasn’t humanly possible.
She stilled at the thought. She always suspected something about him was different; now there was no denying it.
They were at the rock cliff in minutes. James set her down with a gentle flourish before taking a seat beside her.
Neither of them spoke but looked out at the view of stars and sparkling lights from the houses below. From here, she could see not only Booze Mountain but also Duggar Mountain where Skye lived. They used to joke that Piedmont was in the haunted hollows of Alabama’s very own Bermuda Triangle. A mysterious area formed by mountains instead of the sea.
“It feels safe here with you,” she said at last.
“Of all the things you could say to me, that’s the last thing I expected.”
“Why?”
“Why?” A brow arched. “Aren’t you spooked by my freakish abilities? Or didn’t you notice the superhuman race uphill?”
She returned his intent stare and shrugged. “I’m not easily spooked.” Relief flashed in his eyes. “Did you think I would be?”
“You don’t know all of it yet.”
“It doesn’t matter. Besides, I have freak-worthy secrets too.”
“Such as?”
Her throat tightened. Would she lose everything if she told him the truth?
“Let me make this easy for you,” James said. “You’re a witch.”
Her hand crept to her throat. “You know?”
“Almost from the very beginning,” he answered casually, as if discussing the weather.
His eyes held a tender amusement that stunned her. “Are you a witch too? Is that how you guessed?” That would explain a lot. It might even explain his superhuman physical prowess. Maybe it was some specialized form of witch power she hadn’t encountered.
“No.” He regarded her again with an intent, wary look. “I’m an immortal.”
“A what? You mean . . . like a vampire?”
“No, nothing like that. You’ve never heard of an immortal?”
She searched her mind. “I saw a television movie once about men who lived forever and went around chopping each other’s heads off. They wore kilts and called themselves the immortal ones. Is that what you mean?”
“Well-put,” he said sardonically. “That pretty much sums it up.”
A bit of the puzzle that was James fell into place. “When I found you in the woods that time . . . you’d been in a fight with another immortal!”
“Right. He slashed me pretty deep on my side with his sword.”
The blood rushed from her face.
“I’m fine now,” he assured her. “You saw how quickly it healed. The only thing that can permanently hurt me, or end my life, is to be beheaded.”
“Tell me everything.”
He sighed. “Okay. It’s time.”
She took hold of his hand. “I can handle whatever it is.”
7
Hocus Pocus
“I died April 2, 1865 in the Battle of Selma, Alabama. Well, technically I died my mortal death. When I awakened from that nightmare, it was to a new life as an immortal.”
James saw the wonder and questions forming in her eyes. She hadn’t turned away in horror. At least not yet.
“1865 . . . I thought the Civil War was over by then?”
“The history professor would be proud to know someone’s listening in class. You’re close; Lee surrendered to Grant at the Battle of Gettysburg a week later on April 9, 1865.
Her hand squeezed his. “How did you die?”
“It was on the second day of the battle. I was one of only four thousand rebels defending a Confederate munitions plant. What a ragtag group we were too. At nineteen, I was older than most of them. Those of us in the Alabama Brigade were half-starved. But we had General Nathan Forrest on our side, and we fought hard, convinced we would win since we were so far in the Deep South.”
He paused and gazed over the cliff. “Death came for me late in the day. Near the end of the battle, a Union cavalry force broke our columns. Like everyone around me, I was getting ready to run for it when I got hit and went down. There was an explosion of pain in my chest and then numbness.”
She rubbed a thumb over his palm. “Is it hard to talk about this?”
&
nbsp; He shrugged. “A little. But ask me anything you want.”
“What happened after you were shot?”
“When I came to, it was dusk, and the munitions plant was ablaze. The earth smelled of smoke and blood. I was lying flat in a field, surrounded by dead and dying soldiers. The pain returned, and I tried to sit up, until I spotted Union soldiers roaming the field, rounding up prisoners. My strategy was to play dead, but some of the Union soldiers ran swords through those too weak to make the journey to a POW camp.”
Callie shuddered. “Maybe they were putting some of the wounded out of their misery.”
“No. There were no kind acts in that war. After killing the wounded, the soldiers rummaged their haversacks for valuables like food or weapons. One of them came my way, and I managed to grasp my dagger in my right hand.”
“I take it the guy figured it was time to check you.”
“Right. When he bent over me, I grabbed his jacket and quickly stabbed him in the heart. But it wasn’t quick enough. He screamed, and several soldiers saw me withdraw my dagger. Somehow I rose and ran into the woods. Well, more like a loping and limping. I took several more shots in my back but reached the woods alive. Once in the cover of the trees, I crawled as far as I could, expecting at least one of them to chase and finish me off.”
“Did they? Is that how you died . . . or sort of . . . passed from mortal to immortal?”
“No. They didn’t need to chase me. By then, the loss of blood, combined with God knows how many internal injuries, did me in.”
Callie laid her head on his chest. “And yet, here you are.” Her hand rose to cover the beat of his heart.
“I’m not sure if that’s a blessing or a curse.” James stood and strolled a few feet away, memories churning in his guts. He picked up a stone and threw it with superhuman force. “My next memory is waking in a small log cabin being tended by Carter.”
“Come sit back down by me.” She patted the ground beside her. “So Carter’s not your real father.”
“Not biologically, but he taught me the way of immortals and how to survive.” James slowly lowered to sit beside Callie again. “My real dad and two older brothers had already died in the war.”
“You were reborn.” She said in amazement. “Did you have a choice between dying or immortality?”
“If there was, I wouldn’t have opted for this life. No one knows when, how, or why the race of immortals started.”
“So you’ll never die.”
He couldn’t tell if she was awed or horrified. “The only way for an immortal to die is to have their head chopped off.”
She shuddered in revulsion. “And the odds of that happening are—?”
“I’ve lived through twenty-six fights.”
“Do all fights end in death?”
“Almost always. Immortals kill to become more powerful. The life energy of the dead immortal transfers to the victor.”
The vulnerable hollow of her throat convulsed. “Then why didn’t Carter kill you? And why does he look like a middle-aged man instead of younger like you?”
“The age of our first death, the human death, is the age we keep for eternity. Carter became immortal later in life than me. As for why he didn’t chop off my head . . . there are small pockets of us changing from the Old Ways. I can’t tell you if it’s some sort of biological mutation going on, or if it’s an intellectual or spiritual evolution of our species. I’ve never had the desire to hunt down other immortals to absorb their power. I only kill in self-defense.”
He watched her carefully as she took it all in. Would she find him repulsive now? It would probably be for the best, even if it hurt like hell.
“Power,” Callie said slowly. “Everyone is after power. Like my father.” She squared her shoulders. “I’m still here, I’m not running.” She smiled. “I’m glad you had no choice in the matter, otherwise we would have never met. I only wish I could be an immortal with you.”
“Believe me, it’s no picnic. Everyone you love eventually grows old and dies. You always feel like an orphan, no matter how long you live.”
“You have no surviving biological family?”
“None. When I came home from the war, my mother was dead from a combination of starvation and exhaustion trying to farm. She died in March. If she could have held out a little bit longer, I would have been home to help her, and the war would have been over. That haunts me. She wasn’t even forty when she died. That seems like nothing to me now at my age.”
Callie’s eyes flashed in understanding.
“Elizabeth Channing MacLauren was your mother. I saw you at her gravesite, shortly after you died and went through the change.”
The air whooshed out of his lungs. “You must be some kind of special witch.”
“That’s what they tell me,” she said ruefully, as if she didn’t believe it.
Their gazes locked as the protective veil of secrecy between them lifted.
“It’s such a relief that you know about me,” she said.
“Did you plan on telling me?” His voice sharpened with sudden, instinctual suspicion.
She jerked away. “Of course. You don’t believe me?”
He didn’t answer immediately, and the silence grew heavy. They both jumped when her cell phone rang.
“Hey, Grandma. I’m okay. Be home in a few minutes.” She put the phone back in her jean pockets. “Maybe we should head back. I’m a little ticked right now.” Her voice was level, but her eyes showed hurt and anger.
“Callie . . . I’m sorry I—”
“It’s okay. Guess you trust me at least a little to tell me about yourself.”
“Actually, I think I do trust you.” His own words surprised him, but he realized they were true.
“You think?”
“Okay, I know. I’d rather we didn’t have our first fight right now. Not when we’re finally being honest.”
“You’re right. Let’s not do this. I’m glad you opened up.” She walked into his arms and held him tight.
He squeezed her fiercely then pushed her away with a shaky laugh. “You keep holding me like that, and I won’t be able to take you home.”
“Maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing. Maybe I want to be wicked.”
“A wicked witch, huh? We should go now, little one,” he said in a hoarse voice.
“Little one? Now I see why you keep pulling away and saying I’m too young. It’s because you’ve got nearly 165 years on me.” She laughed, but it died as quickly as it had come. “And you’ve had worlds of experience. Lots and lots of women.”
“I don’t know about lots.” He smiled unrepentantly.
Callie held up a hand. “I really don’t want details. And if I ever ask, remind me of that.”
“Got it.” He kissed her in relief. The last thing he wanted was to go over his life’s sex history. “Your family’s waiting. I’ll take you back to school so we can get your car. We’ll talk tomorrow, and you can fill me in on all your secrets. In the meantime, promise me to be extra cautious. Something bad is stirring in these hills.”
“Is it safe to go back down the mountain?” She peered uneasily at the dark trail leading down and swallowed hard. “My dad and his friends are bad news.”
“There’s still more we need to discuss. How about we spend Saturday together? I’ll pick you up about eleven o’clock, and we’ll go to Rome. Probably safer than roaming Piedmont.”
“Works for me.” In spite of all the troubles and danger, the bond between them grew tighter.
“Don’t think I haven’t forgotten you have a ton of questions to answer. I want to know exactly what’s going on with your father.”
Callie Googled ‘Battle of Selma.’ There were a little over 3,000 deaths, 2,700 of them in the Confederate soldiers’ column. She pulled up tintype photos of soldiers in uniform before heading out to war. Many of the Confederates looked cocky, as if leaving the farms for a short adventure. She compared those images to photos of actual
battle scenes, POW camps, and post-war photos. Their faces were gaunt, more than half-starved on a steady diet of fat pork, crackers, and chicory coffee. But what struck her most of all were the eyes, huge, shell-shocked, pained eyes.
James had gone through this at her age.
She wondered what he would make of her story. He didn’t seem shocked she was a witch. How much contact did he have over the years with her kind? Whatever happened, she would make this work. She drifted asleep, concentrating on the image of his face and the feel of his lips in her hair as he held her on top of the mountain.
Their place.
The earth was cold and wet, but James was in flames of agony, the familiar landscape of his death. The shotgun wound in his back burned as hot as the distant fires. He was in hell. The smell of smoke and blood mingled with the sound of moans and screams. As he lay there, bleeding and weak, an ominous silence crept in as more of the fallen soldiers around him died. He wished the peace of death for himself. Instead of a gentle slip into unconsciousness, he heard soldiers on horseback enter the field and alight from their horses. They laughed and called out to one another as if arriving at a party.
It’s a dream. But he couldn’t open his eyes and end it. He faked death, even knowing how it would end. The way it always ended. A Union soldier would single him out. In the twilight of the dreamscape, James saw the hate-filled eyes and mirthful smile seared forever in his brain.
“We got us a live one here, boys.” The soldier reached over his body, and James lifted his dagger to strike.
Then he was stumbling to the nearby woods. If he could just make it . . . the harder he tried to run, the farther away the darkness of the forest became. If he could get to the edge . . .
The shotguns blasted and the force of the bullets drove his body forward. Now he crawled with determination. Death didn’t want him after all. Only a little farther.
“James. You’re okay, you’re home in bed.” Carter’s hand on his shoulder finally roused him from the dream.
He sat up and forced his mind to clear. Safe . . . he had come through intact. Strange. These dreams were occurring more often. It was such a long time ago, and when he looked back on the war and his youth, he felt like a different person entirely. No reason to keep replaying this.
Wicked Legends: A Dystopian Paranormal Romance and Urban Fantasy Collection Page 63