My Favorite Witch

by Lisa Plumley

  “Mona!” Worriedly, Dayna tried to rush to her.

  Acting on instinct, T.J. nodded at the woman. Her eyes rolled back. Her knees buckled. He released Dayna long enough to catch the woman and prop her up. Elders deserved every respect. If this woman didn’t recover, his Patayan magus would never let him hear the end of it.

  He crooned a few ancient words in her ear.

  “What are you doing to her?” Dayna asked.

  “Forgetfulness spell. Keep moving.”

  Typically, she resisted. “Will she be all right?”

  “She was afraid. Now she’s not.” He shoved Dayna. “Go.”

  In his arms, the older woman stirred. Color returned to her face. She blinked, instantly alert. “Hello there.”

  “You’d better get back to your office,” he told her.

  “I was just thinking that.”

  She toddled off, happily humming her way down the hall.

  Satisfied, T.J. turned to look for Dayna. All he glimpsed was her lithe figure as she slipped through the building’s lobby and approached the exit—escaping him into the world beyond.

  She’d gotten the jump on him.

  Simultaneously relieved and terrified, Dayna reached the research library’s exit. Behind her, havoc ruled. Everything she’d known was in chaos—ample evidence of the truth she’d feared but had been unwilling to admit, even to herself.

  Her magic was back.

  It was back, it was out of control, and it was inexplicably strong. As proof, the moment she touched the door, it flew off its hinges, crashing to the steps outside in a shower of glass. Shielding her face with her arm, Dayna blindly ran past it.

  On the steps, she stopped, unsure what to do. People on the sidewalk stared at her. Traffic moved past with its usual stop-andgo rhythm. The businesses nearby went about their everyday routines. Spooked by the surreal ordinariness of it all, Dayna glanced over her shoulder. Had she imagined it all?

  Nope. Although the frenzy of papers and flickering lights and flashing computer monitors had stopped with her exit, a few white scraps of paper still hung in the air, drifting with eerie slowness. Lights drooped at crooked angles from the ceiling. Her coworkers still appeared to be locked in place, unable to move.

  Utterly panicked, Dayna stared down the street. Her heart raced in her chest. Her awareness felt hypersensitive—the stink of exhaust stung her nose; the autumn sunshine hurt her eyes. It felt as if time had slowed, when she knew it could have been only a few seconds since she’d left the tracer behind.

  Where to go? What to do? All she knew was that there had to be another way to control her magic—another way besides returning to Covenhaven.

  She clenched her fists, trying to reason out her options.

  She didn’t drive. She’d never trusted herself that far.

  Her bike was still in her office.

  And the tracer was still after her.

  She felt his presence before she saw him. His strength of will and irrefutable power hit her, impossible to ignore.

  Helplessly, Dayna wheeled around. The tracer strode through the library’s exit, his gaze pinned on her with fearful intensity. He moved in the shadows as if he owned them. The hard line of his jaw and the unyielding set of his mouth said it all.

  She’d made him mad. Uh-oh.

  More afraid than ever, she turned her attention toward the street—toward escape. At the same moment, she felt an onrushing sense of frustration and resolve, undoubtedly coming from him.

  She didn’t have time to consider what that meant—why she could sense his emotions. A freezing wind whipped through the canyon of buildings, stealing her attention. Next a churning wall of dust rose, bearing down on her before she could blink.

  The sandstorm pelted her. She closed her eyes, but it was no use. Coarse grains of sand beat against her eyelids, her face, her arms, scouring her all over. The whispering sound of sand—on concrete, on stucco, on steel and glass, on her—was magnified a thousand times, louder than she could have imagined.

  Afraid to breathe, Dayna waited. Just when it felt as if her chest would explode from lack of oxygen, the sandstorm stopped. Gratefully, she wiped off her face and dragged in a lungful of dust-filled air. It made her cough. Still wheezing, she opened her eyes…then widened them to see a gray sheet of monsoon rain racing down the crowded street.

  It moved on a cold gust of wind, headed straight toward her. In disbelief, Dayna gawked. It was bigger than any storm she’d ever seen—any storm she’d ever heard about. Goose bumps rose on her body. Her hair tossed in the wind, blinding her.

  In the desert, sudden monsoon storms came sometimes—but usually in summer and never in the morning. Never like this.

  Lightning cracked. The sky turned dark just as the rain struck. It bombarded everything in its path with a ferocious torrent, instantly splashing inches of water on the street.

  Pedestrians yelled and ran for cover; several slipped on the slick sidewalk. Cars slid, tires squealing. At the intersection, two vehicles collided with an awful crack.

  Horrified, Dayna stared down at her drenched body, her helpless arms, her empty hands. This had to be her fault, but she’d never done anything this bad. Not even in the past few months, when her latent magical abilities had seemed to be resurging. Her “accidents” had always been exactly that—mishaps that could be explained, like her exploding goldfish bowl had been, or hidden, like the airborne papers in her office.

  The downtown power grid failed next, taking the traffic signals with it. The shutdown turned several city blocks ominously dim—an effect made more noticeable in the sudden gloom. It felt to Dayna as if the darkness might last forever.

  What was happening? Why here? Why now? Why her?

  She didn’t have a chance to figure it out.

  The tracer grabbed her arm, his fingers digging into her wet flesh. His gaze bored into her. “Take a good look. You did this.” He gave her a shake. “And it will only get worse.”

  Distraught, Dayna blinked at him. She could barely see for the rainwater streaming down her face. Unmindful of the storm, she examined him, taking in the male beneath the rain-plastered hair, chiseled cheekbones, and soaked clothes. He was scary. But he was telling the truth. Somehow she knew that beyond a doubt.

  The reality was, staying here and endangering everyone around her felt scarier still. She could not maintain her life here—her peaceful, ordinary life with her friends, the life she’d fought so hard for—if this continued. That much was clear.

  Out of options, Dayna nodded. “What do I have to do?”

  “Take this.” The tracer fisted the dripping, leather-corded amulet he wore around his neck. He pulled it over his head, then held it out to her, his expression enigmatic. “All you have to do is put it on.”

  Chapter Four

  “Just put it on?” Suspiciously, Dayna stared at it, blinking to clear her gaze of rainwater. The amulet swung beneath the downpour, held in the tracer’s certain grasp. Even in the rain, its gold charm stood in bright contrast to its rough leather thong. She shivered. “That’s it?”

  “It’s the first step to making all this right again.”

  He nodded toward the storm, the frightened pedestrians and skidding cars…the life she’d been living until today. Dayna cherished that life. But now her reawakened magic threatened it all. If the tracer could help her learn to control it…

  “How do I know you’re telling the truth?” she asked.

  “I can’t lie to you.” His dark gaze met hers. “You’d know.”

  She scoffed. “That’s impossible.”

  “Not much is impossible for us.”

  Despite the rain coursing down his face, the tracer didn’t waver. Another two vehicles collided down the street, sending an awful screech into the air. He didn’t so much as flinch. It was as though he’d expected mayhem and disaster to follow her.

  He wouldn’t have been the first.

  When she didn’t instantly grab the amulet, he exha
led. “All the other cusping witches were much easier to snare.”

  Somehow, Dayna knew. Her eyes widened. “You’re lying!”

  His curt nod confirmed it. “Witches are able to detect deception. They’ve used that skill to survive centuries of persecution.” Rainwater ran down his temple. It curved along his cheekbone, doing nothing to soften his hard face and unforgiving demeanor. He raised the amulet. “Take this. I could put it on you myself, but it’s stronger if you accept it willingly.”

  She had no choice but to trust him. Still, she hesitated.

  “Do it,” he urged. “We’re already late.”

  He kept saying that. “Late for what?”

  “For your last chance to redeem yourself.”

  She laughed…then realized he was serious.

  Frowning, Dayna grabbed the amulet. It felt heavier than she’d expected. Smoother. Slicker. That was the rain, she guessed. Then…the golden charm moved.

  Opening her palm, she gaped at the amulet. Even as she watched it, the thing somehow came to life before her eyes.

  Still golden, still charmed, it grew reptilian arms and legs. It formed a head, a mouth, and eyes. It looked up at her through those eyes, then snaked its way up her bare arm.

  She shrieked. Rainwater gushed into her mouth, choking her. Sputtering, she stood with her arm outstretched, trying to keep that thing away from her. Undaunted, it skittered across her wet skin on clawed feet, then wound its body around her upper arm.

  It squeezed her. “It’s trying to get under my skin!”

  “Calm down.” Seeming perplexed, the tracer took a step nearer. “Hold still. I don’t think it will hurt you.”

  The thing prickled. “You don’t think it will hurt me?”

  “No.” He stared at it, his expression shuttered.

  There was a definite chink in his imperturbable cool, though. Whatever was happening to her, he hadn’t expected it.

  “It’s…so cold.” She shivered more violently.

  “Just hold still. It’ll be over soon.”

  “Over? What will be over?” She should have known better than to trust a good-looking man bearing gifts. “Tell me!”

  Before he could, the thing quit moving. It began to glow, making the raindrops sparkle all around it. In a final heated flash, it warmed to just above her body temperature.

  Then it was finished.

  The rain quit. The skies cleared. The amulet stopped transforming. The only sounds were liquid ones, formed as rainwater sluiced from every surface in minute rivers. Shaken, overwhelmed by the sudden peacefulness, Dayna looked down.

  A band of golden scrollwork, inanimate now but no less remarkable, wound around her upper arm. With beautiful curves and an intrinsic grace, it fit as if it had been made for her. The tracer stared at it, too, looking as dumbfounded as she felt.

  Hmmm. “What was it supposed to do?” she asked.

  His frown returned. “Bind you. And it has. Let’s go.”

  With his mind racing, T.J. ran for the Mustang with Dayna in tow. The streets were still glossy with rain, but now oily rainbows sparked in the puddles, instigated by the return of the sun. The storm was over. The last of his assigned snares was in his grasp. He was on his way back to Covenhaven. T.J. should have been satisfied. Instead he felt raw with uncertainty.

  “Bind me? What does that mean?” Dayna yelled.

  He didn’t answer. But her golden armlet winked at him all the same, seeming to mock his usual assurance. He’d expected handcuffs—the same handcuffs he’d enchanted himself. He’d gotten something entirely different. Dayna might not realize the significance of what had happened between them, but he did.

  Yes, Dayna was bound. But now he was, too.

  He was bound to her by an unbreakable witching bond. She’d taken the amulet from his hand, and the transference had somehow transformed them both. Now they were a lifepair—or would be, once a consummation formalized their union. Until then, they were marked by their symbols. Promised to one another.

  Bonded.

  “Look, I did what you wanted. I put this thing on!” She waved her arm, showing him her damned armlet. “So how about giving me a few details? Showing me a little faith in return?”

  “Faith? You’re asking the wrong guy for that.” T.J. stopped beside the Mustang, shoving Dayna ahead of him. This grab should have been simple enough for a greenie. Instead, it had just turned a thousand times more complicated. “I’m the one who asks the questions. What the hell was up with that rainstorm?”

  She clenched her jaw, stubbornly not answering.

  Most likely, she didn’t have an answer. The unschooled witches never did. But this one was especially infuriating.

  She shook her wet hair, a visible shiver coursing through her. It sparked a reactionary shudder in him, too—one T.J. could neither stop nor deny. He didn’t like it.

  Worse, he could swear her emotions were blocked to him now. The elder researcher’s alarm had walloped him, partly because it had caught him off guard. Dayna’s reactions were observable, but he could not intuit them anymore.

  Just when he needed that ability the most.

  “Are you part Patayan?” he demanded.

  It wasn’t in her file, but Patayan blood was the only explanation for what he’d seen when he’d stepped outside the research library—and maybe for the bonding magic between them, too. As descendants of ancient indigenous peoples, Patayan were gifted with varieties of enchantments that ordinary Anglo-Saxon witchfolk were not. They could control sun, wind, rain—and usually, unless they were part warlock like him, their emotions.

  “You never said I had to answer your questions.” She glowered at him, a die-hard rebel with her hands fisted. “Aren’t you supposed to read me my rights first or something?”

  “This isn’t a human issue.” He slung her backpack to the puddle-dotted sidewalk, then crouched to unfasten the zipper. Raindrops scattered from the metal track. An instant later, he had the access he wanted. “Human rules don’t apply.”

  “Hey! That’s my stuff.” In protest, Dayna grabbed his arm.

  Immediately her touch made ripples of pleasure race along his skin. Recoiling, T.J. stared at her. If this was an effect of their bond, he didn’t like it. He needed to focus.

  He didn’t need to imagine a runaway witch beneath him, naked and smooth and willing. He didn’t need to want her.

  “I have to search for contraband.” He ducked his head and riffled through the backpack. The items inside jabbed at his fingers, wholly unpleasant to touch. He made a face. “Human origin.” The only soft and pleasurable things of human origin were humans themselves. “You deserve better than this.”

  “Better is subjective. Will those people inside be okay?”

  He glanced up. She bit her lip, gazing anxiously toward the Dynamic Research Libraries building. On the verge of affirming that her “friends” would be unharmed, T.J. shook his head.

  “You answer my questions, I’ll answer yours.”

  “No, I’m not Patayan. I don’t even remember what that is.”

  That meant the rainstorm was twice as inexplicable.

  Unhappy with that realization, T.J. went on examining her belongings. None of them revealed who she truly was—a legacy witch on the verge of her most potent magic. The discovery disappointed him. “You’ve left your real life altogether.”

  “This is my real life. Right here.”

  Her indignant tone made him look up again. His gaze skimmed her sneakers. They were ratty and comfortable looking; good if they had to run. Her pants, similar to his own, clung wetly to her legs, emphasizing their slender length. Her T-shirt, faded and adorned with a kitschy logo, stuck to her drenched skin. The fabric had turned transparent, revealing her skimpy white bra, the outline of her breasts, the pink jab of her nipples.

  Heat surged to his groin. The warlock part of him, so attuned to pleasure and so able to attain it, made itself felt.

  With a firm denial, T.J. rose and shove
d her backpack at her. “Keep this away from me. I don’t want to see you using any of that worthless shit. If I do, I’ll hex it into next week.”

  “Ooh, big man. Scared of a little hairbrush? A wallet?”

  He had to be hearing things. “Are you taunting me?”

  “Maybe.”

  “That’s stupid of you. Get in the car.”

  “Not until you promise me everyone at work will be okay.”

  He stared at her in incredulity. She’d straightened to her full height. Even though hers was a puny stature, T.J. found himself bizarrely impressed. He refused to dwell on the feeling.

  He suppressed a growl. “Fine. I promise.”

  “Good.” She nodded. “Where are we going first?”

  In reply, T.J. opened the car door. He flipped up the bucket seat, then crammed Dayna in the backseat. “Your place.”

  “Hey! Watch it.” Almost upside down, Dayna scrambled to sit upright. She grunted with exertion, her vision righting itself to reveal the interior of an ordinary-looking sports car—with a few special touches. A pair of official InterAllied Bureau tracer licenses filled the plastic holders clipped to the visors. A two-way radio hummed with a report she couldn’t interpret in a dialect she couldn’t recall. A peculiar-looking vial swung from the rearview mirror, Scotch-taped together and containing what looked like…a beetle?

  “I don’t know exactly what tracers are supposed to do,” she shouted, “but I doubt it’s manhandle the goods!”

  “Don’t bother. He can’t hear you. The car has a protective charm on it to keep our conversations private. IAB regulations.” The man in the driver’s seat swiveled. Handsome and dark-haired, he extended his hand, his gaze hidden behind a pair of sunglasses. “Sorry for the rough handling. I’m Deuce Bailey.”

  Guardedly, Dayna looked at him. To her relief, she wasn’t instantly attuned to his feelings. That was a phenomenon she didn’t crave a repeat of. She accepted his handshake. “Dayna Sterling.”

  “I know. You’re a record. Fourteen minutes and counting.” Deuce tapped his watch. “Usually it’s half that. You must be one tough customer. That probably explains the manhandling.”