Spell of Vanishing

Home > Other > Spell of Vanishing > Page 12
Spell of Vanishing Page 12

by Anna Abner


  Her cheeks blushed pink, and he stared, mesmerized.

  “Don’t tell me you don’t?” She widened her eyes in mock horror.

  “Well,” he said, “it’s not my favorite, but I do eat my veggies. I promise.”

  Talia plucked the phone from his hand. “So, a large thin crust veggie deluxe?” It wasn’t exactly a question because she was already ordering one from the person on the other end.

  Still smiling, he busied himself cleaning the kitchen counters with some spray cleanser and a roll of paper towels he kept under the sink.

  “It’ll be here soon,” Talia said, getting comfortable at the breakfast bar. “Do you really think Hugh is short-changing me?” she asked, seemingly out of nowhere.

  She must have been worrying about it since their ill-fated spell attempt on her car.

  Cole set aside the bottle so he could focus on her. “What makes you trust him so much?” he countered.

  She visibly flinched. “Because he’s been my constant companion since I was eight years old.”

  “Even before you started casting?” he clarified. Most casters gained their full powers at puberty.

  “Right. And he’s been really helpful and loyal.”

  Scratching his head, he took a seat opposite her. “It’s hard to explain, but I don’t get a good feeling from him.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “From my experience,” he explained, “spirits who linger on earth a long time are in a kind of purgatory of their own creation because there’s no reason why he wouldn’t want to cross over to the other side and find peace. Everyone he ever loved or knew has died. Yet he’s still here.” Cole picked at a bit of peeling laminate. “I wonder if he was a monster as a human and is hiding out on earth because he’s afraid of what’s waiting for him on the other side.” Cole had encountered spirits like that before.

  “He’s here to help people,” she said with conviction. “He’s not a monster.”

  “You know him best,” he conceded, though he’d continue to keep an eye on Hugh.

  “Speaking of hiding,” Talia’s voice gained an edge, “why don’t you tell your friends about your surgery and Milton Couser?”

  “It’s not the same thing.” He turned a frustrated circle. “Where’s the stupid spray bottle?” He scrubbed the sink so hard he irritated his left wrist, the one he’d nearly dislocated escaping from the hospital.

  “If they can’t handle the scariest parts of you,” she said, her voice growing louder as she approached, “then they’re not your friends at all.” One soft hand pressed against his arm. “Let me see it. What did you do?”

  Obediently, he rotated his hand so she could examine the bruise. While she probed the tender flesh, he inhaled her sweet jasmine scent and the perfect curls around her ears, soft and shiny as soap bubbles.

  “How did it happen?” she asked, releasing him.

  “After I tried to kill Dani in the hospital,” he said, “they tied me to the bed.”

  “They restrained you?”

  “I hurt my wrist getting out of the cuffs.”

  She nodded. “In my opinion, it’s just soft tissue damage, but you might want to get it looked at.”

  “It’s fine.”

  She didn’t back away, and neither did he, which left them standing so close he could see nearly invisible freckles across her cheeks—adorable, chocolate freckles he wanted to kiss.

  “Anyway,” she said, fleeing to the counter. “I think you should tell them.”

  He opened his mouth to answer when someone pounded on the front door.

  Perfect timing. He grabbed his wallet and paid the pizza delivery guy.

  “Smells good,” he said, setting the steaming box on the bar in front of her.

  Cole organized the restaurant’s disposable plates and silverware, light and shadow playing across his arms. His scars stood out like dark fence posts. In the past, he’d been ashamed of them. He’d kept them covered and secret from almost everyone. Only a handful of other casters knew he cut himself, but only one person knew why.

  He glanced at Talia. Regardless of the fact they’d just met, he’d confided some dark and heavy stuff to her. And she’d proven her trustworthiness.

  The strange thing was, he felt better sharing his secrets. Not with just anyone, though. With her.

  “How did you even know,” she asked, her gaze crisscrossing his bare arms, “to cut yourself when you cast?”

  He was quiet as he arranged the dishware more than it realistically needed to be arranged. “I knew I was a necromancer,” he began slowly, keeping his eyes safely averted, “because of Steph and the other spirits. She and I tried a couple spells, but they didn’t work. I started to think I was a necromancer without the ability to cast, and then one day I cut my thumb in the kitchen by accident.”

  He ran the pads of his fingers over the offensive digit. “And I felt a surge of power,” he continued. “Steph suggested we try a healing spell, and it worked. The next spell I tried didn’t work until I cut myself.” He extended his left arm and then pointed at an old scar, a notch under his middle finger. “I have to release him in order to tap his power.”

  Afraid to see her reaction, he set a slice of veggie pizza on a paper plate and slid it in front of her before choosing one for himself.

  “Bullshit,” she said, the ferocity of her tone startling him. “You’re the necromancer, Cole.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” She’d never felt the rush of dark power when he cast.

  Well, perhaps she’d gotten a taste of it earlier, but not the full, undiluted experience. She couldn’t possibly understand.

  “I know that no one gives me my ability to cast,” she said. “It’s just me.” When he shook his head, she added, “Milton Couser is dead, and he has no control over you. At all.”

  He wished so badly she was right, but she wasn’t. Cole lifted his slice of pizza and then realized Talia wasn’t eating.

  “Aren’t you hungry?” he asked. Because he was starving.

  “A little,” she mumbled.

  Not good enough. He’d trusted her with his secrets. He needed the truth. Even if it was only about a stomachache.

  “Talia. Tell me what’s wrong.”

  Reluctantly, she said, “Somewhere out there Sylvester’s a prisoner, and I don’t know if he’s eating. Are his captors even concerned about his nutrition and well-being?” She sighed heavily. “It feels wrong to eat and sleep and bathe and smile while he suffers.”

  “It’s not your fault,” he assured. “You can’t control how they treat him.”

  “Can’t I?” A new, frantic gleam entered her eyes. “If I’m good, they’ll treat him well. If I’m not, they’ll kill him.” She curled over the counter, holding herself. “Maybe this was a huge mistake. Maybe I need to contact Michael again and beg for mercy. I thought I was strong enough for this, but if Sylvester dies because of me…”

  Cole didn’t know what to say. Not when her logic was solid. So, he thought to distract her instead. “Would you like to go on a quick jog around the yard after dinner? I know it won’t get your nephew back,” he rushed to add, “but it’ll help you feel better.”

  She peeked at him through her arms. “Where did that idea come from?”

  “In my regular life,” he said. “I run every day, but it’s been awhile. A quick jog will clear our heads.”

  “Actually,” she said, taking her first bite, “running sounds great. I have all this nervous energy bouncing around inside me. Though I haven’t run regularly since college. I probably won’t be any good at it.”

  “Perfect. Because I’m falling out of shape by the minute. You’ll be doing me a favor.”

  She snorted in apparent disbelief. “You’re in great shape.” Then, flushing, she took another bite.

  Meeting up with her after dinner in the foyer, he told her, “We’re going to find Sylvester. First thing tomorrow, I’ll go by the cabin. Maybe something will ju
mp out at me, and all this will be over.”

  “Maybe,” Talia said with little or no conviction.

  Cole kept his word and set the pace slow. As they jogged around the perimeter of the property, skirting fallen trees and deep cornrows, she kept up. When he sensed her reaching her exhaustion level, he steered them around to the house.

  He wasn’t finished, not by half, but he didn’t want to wear her out.

  She gripped the porch railing, panting and wet with sweat while he stretched his calves.

  “You’re doing well,” Talia said, “for a transplant patient.”

  He frowned. “Is that a dig?”

  “No. But why did you stop taking your meds? Few patients came back from rejection. The drugs help.”

  Cole hung his head, planting his hands on his hips. “About eight or nine years ago, I hit a low patch.”

  “Emotionally?”

  He nodded. “I hated the idea of this monster inside me. I hated cutting myself to cast. I hated not knowing who was in control of my consciousness at any given moment. I threw my prescription bottles in the trash, and I tried to bleed Couser out of me.”

  “You tried to kill yourself?” Her expression turned from curious to horrified.

  It was something he’d never shared. “Not exactly,” he said. “I just wanted him out.” He wanted to be a normal, boring human man again, not a freak of nature.

  “I can guess what happened.”

  Bottom line, it hadn’t worked. “I woke with Stephanie crying over me. And Couser was still firmly entrenched in my blood cells.”

  “It didn’t change anything?”

  “No,” he said. “I couldn’t get rid of him without cutting his damned heart out of my chest. And maybe not even then.”

  “Is it really that bad?” she ventured softly.

  “I don’t feel in control of my own body,” he said. “So, yeah, it really is that bad.”

  She opened her mouth to say something further, but thought better of it.

  “Take the bed,” he said abruptly, just wanting out of the conversation. “I’ll shower and then sleep downstairs.”

  “Wait. Do I have to sleep in his room?”

  “Sleep wherever you’re most comfortable.” Then, he amended himself by adding, “So long as it’s inside the house.”

  “Thank you.” Without asking for help, she swept into Couser’s bedroom, grabbed hold of the mattress, and dragged into the master bedroom. The one with robin’s egg blue walls and polished wood floors, completely devoid of spell circles and glyphs and bad mojo.

  * * *

  Talia’s phone vibrated against the wood floor at 4:00 AM making plenty of noise to wake her. Not that she’d technically fallen asleep. More like wiggle for six or seven hours in a half conscious haze, imagining the White Wraith standing over her.

  Still fuzzy around the edges, she gathered her things and stepped quietly into the hall. There were no sounds coming from Cole’s room, and she couldn’t tell whether he slept peacefully or stood on the balcony, too haunted by nightmares to rest. But she didn’t open his door to check, just hurried downstairs and out the front door.

  Dawn was on the agenda, but the sun hadn’t broken the horizon yet, and though there were no stars in the sky, the yard was murky gray. No sign of Zachary. Or Hugh. Or anyone else.

  The world was chilly, dark, and eerily quiet. Talia picked up her speed and locked herself into her car.

  “Excellent idea, miss.” Hugh materialized in the passenger seat. “We should leave immediately for Springfield and complete the master’s request.”

  “What?” She twisted to see his face, shocked he’d say such a thing.

  He stared back, unreadable. “Once you finish his work, the master will forgive you. I am convinced of it.”

  “I’m not hurting anyone else. I told you that.” Besides, she couldn’t fool herself into thinking the Dark Caster would forgive her and welcome her back into the fold. Not that she wanted him to. “I’m a good person,” she exclaimed. “I’m not a monster. I don’t hurt people.” Her gaze was drawn to the lopsided farmhouse. Somewhere inside, Cole still suffered aftereffects from the nightmare spell. “Oh, God, we did such awful things. How did this happen? How did we fall so far?”

  Exhaustion finally caught up with her. Or perhaps it was a combination of fear and crippling guilt. But the floodgates burst open, and Talia cried. The kind of crying that hurt.

  “They’re not going to forgive me, Hugh,” she sobbed. “They’re going to torture me.”

  “Miss, it grieves me to see you this way.”

  “I just want to go home.” Though that wish seemed impossible now.

  “I believe simply finishing your task,” Hugh said, “will prove your loyalty to the master.”

  Talia lost control. “I’m not hurting anyone else!” She aimed furious eyes at her spirit companion. “Why are you pushing this?”

  He clammed up as if he’d said all he wanted to say.

  With no sound between them but her own sniffling, Talia dropped her forehead to the steering wheel. There was no point starting the car. Where would she go? Harvey had already tracked her down to her home and a public shopping center. There was no doubt he’d follow her wherever she fled.

  And without Cole, she’d be at a serious disadvantage against the more experienced casters in the dark cabal.

  Cole.

  Her sobs tapered off, and she glanced once more at the house looming in the distance. “Cole wants to keep me safe. He wants to help.” No one else did.

  “True,” Hugh said. “He cares about your safety. ‘Tis obvious.”

  It was also obvious what she should do. “Go to the Dark Caster,” she said in a rush, “or the White Wraith. Tell them I’m a good person. Convince them they don’t have to punish me. Because I’m staying here.” She hugged her purse to her chest and reversed her trajectory, heading back toward the house.

  “Please think this through,” Hugh said, trailing behind. “Burkov will turn on you when he discovers what you have done.”

  “I’m not going to tell him.” Talia lingered in the doorway, half in and half out of the barrier spell. “Are you?”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Talia woke Sunday morning alone and disoriented. The walls and ceiling of the little bedroom where she’d spent the night closed in on her as her eyes opened to a new day. For a brief moment she thought she was a prisoner of the cabal, that they had found her and locked her in their depressing basement cell under the forest cabin.

  But no. She was technically free, only a different kind of prisoner.

  And then the weight of everything that had happened the day before crushed her flat.

  Sylvester was still missing.

  And she’d been not only attacked by the cabal, but also kicked out of their group and targeted as some kind of outlaw.

  Stiff from sleeping in the unfamiliar bed, Talia rose and stretched her arms above her head.

  She was a little surprised she hadn’t woken the night before to Cole’s nightmares, but she hadn’t heard a peep. Maybe he was feeling better. Or maybe she was so exhausted a bulldozer in the hall wouldn’t have woken her.

  “Cole?” she called as she came out of the upstairs bathroom, ready to kick-start the day.

  “In here,” he answered from Milton’s bedroom.

  With two mugs of steaming coffee in hand, made from a stash of instant powder she’d found in a cupboard, she entered his room. “What are you up to?” she asked, offering him a cup.

  Accepting it with a grateful smile, he said, “I’m glad you’re still here.” Without embarrassing her or quizzing her on why, he just smiled. “And to answer your question, I’m looking through my spell book.”

  The sight of him ruffled from sleep sent a trill of awareness down her abdomen. He was a beautiful man, and getting more so by the day as he ate better and slept longer.

  Cole gestured to the large, leather-bound tome opened on the floor beside him.
“I want to be ready for anything. In a real fight there won’t be time to stop and think what to do.”

  He really was a boy scout. Always prepared. “Smart.” She took her first sip of strong, black coffee and made a face. “Yikes. Not like the baristas make it, is it?”

  Cole chuckled, tasted his own coffee, and then set it aside. “Anyway, I was trying to memorize a couple helpful spells.”

  Helpful was misleading, though. “Defensive or offensive?” she asked because no black magic was helpful.

  “A little bit of both, I guess,” he admitted. “Like this one.” He sat cross-legged and flipped pages. “It summons a swarm of stinging insects.”

  “Holy crap,” Talia exclaimed. The more Cole taught her about necromancy, the less she knew. “How awful. Whatever happened to a simple sleep spell?”

  “That’s in here, too,” he said. “But casting a sleep spell on a target is kind of a blessing, in a way, because the victim won’t suffer anymore of your tortures. The cabal, though, won’t save you any pain. They wouldn’t cast a sleep spell unless it was part of an even worse nightmare spell.”

  “Oh.” Talia didn’t want to think about what her former peers in the cabal were capable of. “What are you working on, then, if not a sleep spell?”

  “Um.” He flipped more pages, and she caught sight of glyphs and foreign words. “I like this dust storm one. And there’s a muscle spasm one that seems interesting, but it’s very powerful.”

  “And you don’t have your own spirit companion.” Maybe Steph could handle big spells. Hugh, thus far, hadn’t shared much energy. Hardly enough for a simple healing or locator spell. Speaking of. “Have you cast a locator spell yet?”

  “No,” he said, studying a new page in his book. “Not yet.”

  “Let’s go out in the yard then.” She was anxious to see what he discovered.

  “Actually,” Cole said, finally giving her his full attention. The deep green of his eyes caught her by surprise. “I thought we could use Milton’s spell circle and do the casting from in here.”

  Talia crossed her arms, and then dropped them to her sides. “With Hugh on the balcony again?” She didn’t want anything to do with Couser, but coupling his circle with black magic? Irresponsible and dangerous.

 

‹ Prev