Whispered Visions (Shifters & Seers Book 3)

by Tammy Blackwell

  Layne laid back, using the armrest as a pillow. One leg was braced on the floor and the other fell across the pillow on her lap. Even with several layers of clothes and an abundance of cotton stuffing between them, she could feel the warmth of his leg seeping into hers.

  “You know what I think,” Layne said, biting off a piece of a caramel Galaxy bar. Lizzie was momentarily distracted by a bit of chocolate decorating his full bottom lip. “You should write a novel.”

  “Me? Write a novel?”

  “Well, you do read a lot of them.”

  “And you eat a lot of candy bars, but I don’t see you running out to hire a bunch of Oompa-Loompas and starting a chocolate factory.”

  Layne finished off his candy bar in one giant bite. “As a matter of fact,” he said around a mouthful of chocolate and caramel, “I’ve already hired my first one. Caroline will be in charge of making sure the chocolate river stays properly stirred and free of round German boys.”

  And she would do it too. The kid worshiped Layne, which might have been disastrous if the idolization hadn’t gone both ways.

  As if Lizzie needed another reason to love Layne. No, being handsome, smart, funny, and having a good heart wasn’t enough. He had to go and become best friends with a three year old girl. It really wasn’t fair.

  “Well, I don’t plan on writing a novel anytime soon,” Lizzie said, flipping the page and pretending to be oblivious to his proximity. “I read because it’s fun. I like the escape. Writing is work, and the last thing I want to do is screw up my one true love by turning it into a chore.”

  Layne snickered. “Your one true love is reading? That’s just sad, Lizzie Lou.”

  “Reading is an admirable passion to have. It increases brain function, builds vocabulary, and educates.”

  “Yeah, well how does it do at keeping you warm at night or holding you when you’re sad?”

  Lizzie stared at the words on the page, schooling her expression so he wouldn’t know just how devastating of a blow he’d just delivered.

  “I have blankets to keep me warm, and I don’t want anyone to touch me,” she said, her voice flat, but Layne wasn’t letting up. She could feel his gaze warming the side of her face. Her eyes stayed trained on the page in front of her, even though she hadn’t read a word of it. The weight on her lap lifted. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to sigh with relief or disappointment.

  “You’re not really serious about that, are you?” Layne asked, sitting up. Instead of scooting over to the other armrest, he stayed on the middle cushion, mere inches from where Lizzie sat. “I mean, I get why you wear the gloves and don’t want to brush up against some random person, but you want to be touched, don’t you?”

  Lizzie didn’t say anything. What could she say? That she was touch starved to the point she would sell her soul for something so simple as a pat on the back? That even though using her Sight made her stomach turn, she had relished shaking Rashid’s hand because for that brief moment she knew she was an actual corporeal part of this world and not merely a specter moving through it?

  “When was the last time you were hugged? When was the last time you kissed someone?”

  Three years ago. Perhaps you remember the details?

  “Not everyone needs constant physical affection,” Lizzie bit out.

  “But everyone needs some physical affection. There was like a study with orphan babies and stuff back in a world war or something, and it said that when you deny someone physical affection, they die.”

  “I’m not an infant, Layne.”

  “And you’re not made of stone, Lizzie. You have to let people in. Let someone give you a hug for the love of God.”

  “Who?” she asked, letting her frustration and sadness morph into anger. “Who exactly am I supposed to let hug me? Which of our friends’ brains am I supposed to invade like a soul-ravaging pirate? Or should I spare the people I actually care about and get physical with someone I barely know and most likely will never see again? How does that work out for you, Layne? Did you get all the warm and fuzzies you need to survive by sneaking off with that Seer from Greenland at Scout and Liam’s wedding?” The last words ended with a snarl. She was breathing so hard she sounded like one of the Alpha Pack’s prized Thoroughbreds.

  Layne didn’t flinch, or even narrow his eyes in anger like she expected. He just sat, staring at her like he’d never seen her angry before, which was far from the truth. She tended to live up to every stereotype ever linked to redheads.

  “You saw us?”

  Lizzie eyes fell back on her book, but she was too upset to even see words. It was nothing but blurry black lines on a white backdrop.

  “I was looking for Mischa. I wasn’t spying on you or anything.”

  Another award beat of silence, and then, “It didn’t mean anything to me.”

  Lizzie’s eyes were burning. She blinked them several times to clear away whatever was irritating them, but it didn’t help.

  “Obviously,” she said, remembering the almost robotic way Layne’s hands stroked and caressed as his mouth moved methodically against the somewhat older Seer’s.

  “So why does it mean something to you?”

  Throwing her book on the floor and running out of the room would be cowardly, but Lizzie was tempted all the same. The only thing staying her hand was knowing the moment she did, Layne would figure it all out. He would know the way her heart had broken at the sight of him with someone else. He would know how much she actually cared, and once he knew, there would be no stopping him. The Hagans were a tenacious breed in general, but Layne made his uncle and cousins look like quitters in comparison.

  She opened her mouth, completely unsure of what she might say, when she was saved by the familiar snick of every lock sliding into place. A few moments later, the door swung open to reveal Alistair in all his entitled glory. For the first time in her life, Lizzie was thrilled to see him.

  “Alistair, what a surprise,” she said with more warmth than the moment warranted. If Layne noticed, he didn’t say anything. He simply got up and walked into the kitchen without acknowledging the Viscount’s entrance.

  “I come with a surprise,” Alistair said, a wide smile lighting up his face.

  “Oh! I love surprises!” Lizzie bounced up and down, clapping her hands and wondering who in the hell she’d become in the last ten minutes.

  “Oh! Me too!” Layne clapped from his place in front of the refrigerator. His tone was so sardonic Lizzie wouldn’t have been surprised to find that the temperature of the room dropped a few degrees in response. “What kind of surprise are we getting today? Are you going to lock me up in a cage? Or maybe you’re going to drug Lizzie and drag her out of here to do your dirty work for you? Or is it an even more awesome surprise? Maybe something involving torture and physical pain?”

  The entire bit was done with the enthusiasm of a cheerleader hopped up on meth. Any affection Lizzie might have been feeling before was dying a quick and brutal death. As for Alistair, he looked like he would happily chop all of Layne’s fingers off, one by one, before shooting him in the face.

  “Ignore him,” Lizzie said, wishing it was that easy. “So, this surprise…” she coaxed.

  “Ah. Yes.” Alistair cleared his throat and forced his gaze back to her. “I’ve come to make good on my promise.”

  “Promise?”

  “My promise,” he said. “Today, I’m taking you to the library.”

  Chapter 16

  The Brownlow Manor library wasn’t nearly as grand as the one that won Belle over in Beast’s castle. The ceiling didn’t tower a hundred feet overhead; there wasn’t a single spiraling staircase, let alone two; the floor wasn’t a massive expanse of marble; and stone lions didn’t stand guard over a seemingly infinite collection of books. In truth, it reminded Lizzie more of the bookstore Belle frequented in her provincial town than the fairytale castle library, but it made her blood sing all the same.

  “Wow,” she breathed as Alistair led h
er through the door. The room wasn’t much larger than her bedroom upstairs, and it was decorated in much the same way - antique hardwood floors, paneled walls, and overly ornate crown molding - but instead of housing a bed and chest of drawers, it was filled to its painted ceiling with books. And these weren’t just some outdated Encyclopedia Brittanicas and moth-eaten paperbacks. Even from the doorway Lizzie could see the fine leather binding.

  “Do you have any idea how they’re organized?” she asked, her fingers itching to dance across the spines and discover what secrets lie within.

  Alistair looked around the room as if he’d never seen a book before in his life. “By subject? And author?” he ventured. “Honestly, I don’t think I’ve stepped foot in here since my father ordered me out over fifteen years ago.” He flashed a chagrined smile. “If I remember correctly, I’d decided to add some color illustrations to some old, and doubtlessly priceless, book.”

  He looked so boyish Lizzie couldn’t help smiling in return.

  “I hope you’ve outgrown that particular urge,” she said. “I’d hate to be forced to toss you out of your own library.”

  Directly across from where they stood was a brief expanse of wall without books where a carved fireplace sat. In front of it was a large wooden desk, its top worn down to a dull, scratched surface. It seemed that while Alistair had no use for the library, countless viscounts before him had.

  “Hmmm… Wonder what treasures we’ll find in here,” Alistair said, walking around the desk. He pulled out a drawer, looked inside, and shut it with a frown before moving on to the next one. “Ancient love letters from a heartsick aristocrat to a servant? The key to a forgotten lockbox? Or…” He opened up the last drawer and triumphantly lifted a bottle of amber liquid into the air. “A bottle of my father’s finest Scotch!”

  A bit more rooting around in the drawer produced two dusty glasses.

  “Would you care for some? It’s Balblair. 1983 vintage. I promise, you’ve never tasted whiskey like this before.”

  “I’m sure I haven’t.” Especially since I’ve never tasted whiskey before, period. “But no. Thank you.”

  Alistair didn’t press the issue. He merely shrugged and poured himself a glass. While he made himself at home in the squeaky chair, Lizzie finally gave into temptation and made her way over to the bookshelves.

  As she suspected, the books along this particular row were all hand bound in leather. No titles were embossed on the sides, so she gently pulled one out, freeing it from the space it had occupied for countless decades according to the thick layer of dust she left in its wake.

  The front offered no more clues as to what might be found inside, so with anticipation building, she flipped open the cover to reveal the title page.

  Manlike Line.

  Lizzie’s forehead crinkled in confusion. She turned to the next page, which was set up ledger style. Names were written along the left column, and on the right, two sets of dates. Some of the names were linked to others, and next to them, annotations denoting different pages, or even different books. Lizzie only had to flip through a few more pages to find what she was looking for. Next to Olek Melnyk, “PL” was scribbled in red.

  Heart racing, Lizzie pulled another book off the shelf. Another list of names, these belonging to the Niemi Line.

  Her hands were trembling as she walked back up the row of books, occasionally pulling out one to glance at the title page.

  Lopez.

  Kang.

  Hosen.

  Hagan.

  “Find anything interesting?”

  Lizzie shrieked and jumped at least a foot into the air. Her arms caged the book protectively against her chest.

  “You really do get lost in books, don’t you?” Alistair reached out as if to touch her cheek. Lizzie flinched, and he dropped his hand, but not before she saw a flash of irritation in his eyes.

  Her heart paused, terrified this was the moment. The one where she pushed him too far and he decided he was tired of her pushing him away.

  She knew things couldn’t go on like this infinitely. Eventually, he would expect her to let him touch her, and if she didn’t get to that point voluntarily…

  No. She wouldn’t think about that. Not yet. Not when he’d already reconstructed his mask of patient flirtation.

  Lizzie forced herself to release the death grip she had on the book and let if fall idly to her side.

  “Sorry, I didn’t hear you come up,” she said, sliding the book back into its spot. “I’ve been looking for the real books. So far, all I’ve found is a bunch of ancient accounting journals.” Which was more or less true.

  She made a mental note of the book’s location before stepping across the room. When Alistair lingered, she grabbed his hand in her gloved one and pulled him along.

  “Come on,” she said. “There has to be some classic smut hiding on these shelves somewhere. What respectable Englishman doesn’t own a copy of Fanny Hill?”

  Physical contact and mentioning an erotic novel did the trick. Alistair was much more interested in her than the books on the shelf, which for once was a good thing. If he’d been paying even the slightest bit of attention, he would have quickly noticed how every title had something to do with wolves, coyotes, or werewolves. When Lizzie discovered a collection of fairytales and declared she was going to find something for Caroline to read, Alistair decided it was time to reacquaint himself with his father’s Scotch. Lizzie waited until his attention was completely consumed by the task at hand before darting across the room and slipping the Hagan Family Record back into her stack.

  Chapter 17

  Layne knew something was up. It wasn’t just the way Lizzie had laid her books down on the floor instead of up on the table and then angled her body in front of them as if they were a prize worth protecting. It was more in the way she was giggling at everything Alistair said and touching his arm over and over and over again. Lizzie didn’t flirt. She found the whole process tedious. So if she was playing the part of a tease, there had to be a reason, and since the liquor cabinet smell was confined to Lord Preppy Pants, it wasn’t because she was drunk.

  “Thanks for showing me your library,” she said, making it sound as if he’d shown her something else entirely. Layne’s fingernails bit into his palm. “You’ll take me back again soon, right?”

  As if the guy was going to say no with her looking up at him through her eyelashes like that. Alistair was a spoilt psycho with no heart, but he wasn’t an idiot. Still, it took another five minutes of polite dismissals laced with sexual innuendos before the loser got a clue and left. Lizzie waited for the doors to unlock themselves once again before she turned to face him.

  “Where is Caroline?” she asked, gathering the books off the floor and dividing them into piles on the table.

  “Outside,” Pari said from her post at the window. “She’s picking flowers and teaching Midge how to skip.”

  Emotion made Pari’s voice thick. Lizzie looked to him for an explanation, but he could only shrug. It had taken days of coaxing and threatening to get the kid the fresh air she needed. When Midge came in and announced she would be taking Caroline outside for one hour a day, three days a week, starting now, Caroline had jumped up and down, squealing at ear-damaging pitches while silent tears ran down her mother’s face. Layne had been fighting to keep his emotions in check ever since.

  “Okay, that’s good. That’s good,” Lizzie muttered, starting to pace. “Not that she would understand, but that’s the problem, isn’t it? I mean, she’s a kid. Who knows what she might decide to repeat? And then they would figure everything out, and that would be bad. So this is good.”

  Layne stepped into her path, forcing her to abandon her attempt at digging an escape route with her feet.

  “I know you think you’re making sense, but you’re not.”

  Lizzie walked over to the window and thrust a stack of books at Pari. “Here,” she said. “Flip through these. Keep your eyes down and expression neutral
. Remember, we’re being watched.”

  Pari took the books, giving Lizzie a curious look before doing as she had been asked.

  Lizzie grabbed another book as she walked past the table. It looked old and important. The exact sort of book you would expect to find in the library of an old English mansion. She caressed it lovingly before coming to stop in front of him.

  “Make it believable,” she said. “Don’t take it immediately. Pretend I’m talking you into it.”

  He thought about mentioning that no matter what he did, they were going to know something was up by her jerky, frantic movements, but he bit his tongue. Now wasn’t the time to start yet another one of their epic arguments, especially since the only argument he wanted to have was a continuation of the one they had been having when Alistair so rudely interrupted. He wanted - no, needed - to know why she was upset about the few minutes of oblivion he’d found with a Lizzie stand-in back in June.

  “How about I act like you’re starting to freak me out a little?” He asked since she really was. Lizzie didn’t get uptight and fidgety. It was almost as foreign to her as flirting.

  With a deep breath, she held out the book. Layne crossed his arms over his chest. She pushed it towards him again, and this time he reached for it.

  He hoped to God it was the kind of scene she was wanting because there was no way he was going to take another stab at it. Acting was nowhere near his wheelhouse.

  There was a hesitation, a moment of holding on too long, as Lizzie handed over the book. For some reason, her reluctance made Layne nervous. What the hell was in this book? He threw open the cover and stared blankly at the first page where someone had scrawled “Hagan Line” in black ink.