Table of Contents
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Epilogue
Other Titles By B. C. Burgess:
Bio—Including contact info:
A Sneak Peek at book 3 in the Mystic series
IMPASSION
Mystic Book 2
B.C. Burgess
Copyright © 2012 by B.C. Burgess. All rights reserved.
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/B.C.BurgessBooks
Mystic Fiction Blog: http://bcburgess.blogspot.com/
Twitter: @BCBurgessBooks
Email: [email protected]
First Kindle Edition: September 2012
Editor: Kelly Schaub
Cover and Formatting: Streetlight Graphics
All rights reserved. This eBook is licensed for the personal enjoyment of the original purchaser only. This eBook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this eBook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.
Dedication
For my husband and son, who make the most sacrifices for my craft. Your patience, understanding and support mean the world to me, and I love you guys with every beat of my heart. Thank you.
Acknowledgments
TO THOSE OF YOU WHO helped make Descension possible—you have continued to provide amazing love and support for Impassion, and I thank you for it again and again. Additionally, thank you to all my new readers for your avid enthusiasm. I love being able to share Layla’s story with you, and I’m touched you’re so passionate about reading it. To my editor, Kelly Schaub—thank you for your continued guidance and advice. Your editing and Oregon expertise is invaluable. To Jillian Dodd, a fellow author and an amazing woman—without knowing me, you have helped me too many times to count. Not only do I appreciate your advice more than I could possibly convey, I believe your kindness should serve as a lesson to us all. And last but not least, a great big thanks to Streetlight Graphics, who once again took my ideas and turned them into a beautiful cover.
Prologue
March 2010—Oklahoma
BONES THROBBING, AS IF MARROW had been replaced by liquid nitrogen, Farriss landed in the deserted alley of a strip mall and walked to a metal door. He reached for the silver knob with invisible fingers, used magic to twist the industrial lock and disarm the security system. Then he glanced around before slipping inside.
Twelve hours had passed since Farriss knelt at Agro’s feet, welcoming the icy punishment that thickened his blood and cramped his muscles, yet the whip’s freezing lash lingered, reminding him of his erroneous judgment. Forbidden to heal himself, Farriss endured, and he did so appreciatively. After losing his calm and burning down the Gander Creek diner, Farriss had expected much more than pain. He’d returned to Agro anticipating death.
It hadn’t been easy—entering Agro’s tent expecting the end—but Farriss refused to die a coward’s death, running from the inevitable wrath of the most dangerous wizard in North America.
Agro’s ice magic had run deep, and Farriss had longed for death, grinding his teeth to keep from begging for the end. But death didn’t come. Instead, Agro lifted him from the rug and poured him a glass of wine, telling him to shake it off; he had a real estate broker to interrogate.
Farriss did as he was told, grateful to be alive, but frozen to the bone.
Unfortunately, the real estate broker turned out to be a lawyer.
Farriss first visited the strip mall around noon, aiming to scout the place and perhaps slip inside for a home address. He figured Gerald Greene would be at church, or taking his family to lunch. That’s how most hexless citizens spent their Sundays in the Bible Belt, so Farriss was taken by surprise when he found Mr. Greene ushering a woman and two teenagers into his office.
Farriss had halted, reminded by the fierce frost still biting his bones that he should proceed with caution. Mr. Greene knew the witch; Agro wanted the witch. If Farriss were to hinder his boss’ desires, death would be the least of his worries.
Deciding it would be best to leave the woman and kids out of it, Farriss had rushed forward, stopping Mr. Greene before he could enter the building. That’s when Farriss realized Gerald wasn’t a real estate agent, but a lawyer, and a damn good one, with lips as tight as a virgin.
Gerald had been jovial at first, greeting Farriss with a curious smile and a polite handshake, but the moment Farriss inquired about Layla Callaway, the lawyer clammed up. He wouldn’t admit he was selling the witch’s house, let alone divulge her location.
Had it not been for the lingering pains of his previous punishment, Farriss would have gotten rough with the lawyer, who surely would have cracked after a bit of mystical torture. However, given his strict instructions to keep a low profile, Farriss merely walked away.
Now, two hours later, he’d returned to the empty building and was floating down a dark hallway, searching for Gerald’s private office. He found it locked, but hexless bolts were no match for magic.
Once inside, Farriss floated across the room, wondering how long Agro would obsess over his newest target. In twenty years of servitude, Farriss had never witnessed such intense motivation in his boss, such burning desire to get his hands on one particular magician. Apparently the witch was something special. According to Agro, she was more powerful than a lowly brute like Farriss could comprehend. To that, Farriss had merely bowed his head, because he didn’t understand. Agro was surrounded by unusually powerful magicians at all times. Why risk everything for one more?
Farriss searched the desk for a rolodex or an appointment book, finding neither. Since the rise in popularity of cell phones, address books were hard to come by. The cluttered desk was cleared where a computer should have been, which likely meant Gerald had taken his laptop home.
“Good,” Farriss muttered, heading for the filing cabinets. He hated hexless technology.
After manipulating the lock on the drawer marked A-C, he slid it open and vanished the glove on his left hand, illuminating the folders with supernatural light. Shortly into the Cs, he found a Callaway, but the first name was Katherine, not Layla. The next file belonged to a Caldwell then a Calvin.
“Shit.”
He pulled Katherine’s file and flipped it open. Maybe the suspicious lawyer secured Layla’s file after being questioned about her.
Using his magical light, Farriss scanned Katherine’s information, hoping she was connected to the witch. When he came across Katherine’s date of birth, he found a date of death as well—the second o
f January, 2010. Nearly three months before. It matched the information Farriss had gathered on Layla at the Gander Creek bar. Her mother—adopted mother actually—had passed away in January.
A sliver of relief rushed Farriss’ aching bones as he continued to scan Katherine’s file, looking for definitive proof. He found it on the second page. Katherine Callaway was the mother of twenty-one-year-old Layla Callaway. They’d been living in Gander Creek, Oklahoma since April 1989. Upon her death, Katherine left a large sum of money and an envelope to her daughter, both of which were collected on March 8th.
So, Layla Callaway, the deeply desired and powerful witch, had stood in that very office less than two weeks before, gathering her inheritance and an envelope of unknown content.
Farriss searched the rest of the documents, looking for bread crumbs that might lead to the witch’s current location, but the file lacked information older than 1989, and it didn’t list any other relatives or connections. The only clue Farriss found was a letter written by Katherine asking Gerald to settle a vehicle loan held by a bank in Ketchum, Idaho. Not much to go on, but at least it proved Farriss had followed orders. Perhaps he’d avoid a second dose of freezing wrath.
After committing a good portion of the file to memory, Farriss replaced the folder and secured the drawer, eager to return to camp. He pulled his glove on as he headed for the door. Then he froze as light poured into the hallway from the front lobby.
A man’s voice—Gerald’s voice—floated into the office. “Where did you leave it?”
“Your desk,” a woman answered. “I think.”
Gerald grumbled, his voice growing nearer. “How you manage to lose your cell every other day, I’ll never know. I’m going to glue it to your hand.”
“You’ll do no such thing,” she laughed. “If ya’d given me your keys, I coulda done this myself.”
“I didn’t want you here by yourself. You saw that man asking questions earlier.”
“He was pissed. But what do ya think he’d do? Break in…”
Her voice faded as she and Gerald halted at the open door of his office, nervously peering into the dim room.
“Did ya forget to lock up?” the woman asked.
“No,” Gerald answered.
“Was the security system on?” she pressed.
“I didn’t notice,” he mumbled, reaching around the corner for the light switch. “I just push the buttons. Maybe Dolores stopped by for something.”
Farriss watched from two feet away, his body magically concealed, frozen in more ways than one. He didn’t even breathe lest Gerald feel the air escape his lungs.
“There it is,” the woman exclaimed, moving into the office.
Her elbow nearly brushed Farriss’ cloak, so he took a step back and almost hit a coat rack. Shit. He was under strict instruction to leave the lawyer and his office unscathed, but if it came down to discovery or disaster, Farriss would have to choose the latter then pay the price.
Gerald followed the woman into the office, halting a foot from Farriss as he searched for something out of order. There wasn’t anything unusual to find, so he turned and watched his companion grab her cell phone from one of the chairs.
“Are ya gonna call Dolores?” she asked. “See if she stopped by?”
“I’ll call her when I get home,” Gerald answered, taking the woman’s hand. “I don’t want to be around if that guy comes back. I get enough interrogation in court.”
Gerald flipped off the lights then closed the door, and Farriss’ lungs deflated as he floated forward. Keys jingled as the lock clicked into place, and Farris reached for the door knob, but he didn’t turn it. He stood inert as he listened to the woman’s muffled reply, waiting for the conversation to fade away.
“What was he?” she asked. “Bounty hunter?”
“I’d say maybe,” Gerald replied, “but it doesn’t make sense considering the client.”
“Who’s the client?”
Farriss perked up, straining his ears as he magically maneuvered the lock and slowly turned the knob, cracking the door a few inches.
“Layla Callaway,” Gerald answered.
Farriss’ frozen bones seemed to sing, rejoicing in anticipated information that may save them from further torture.
“Layla,” the woman mumbled, trying to recall the name.
Farriss held his breath, silently begging for more. When it came, flowing from the sweet woman’s tongue, a heavy weight lifted.
“Layla,” she exclaimed, “the gal that moved to the west coast.”
“Right,” Gerald confirmed.
Farriss grinned, shifting the sudden arousal tightening his pants. Success always gave him a semi—it was an ego thing—and now that he had a solid lead to share with Agro, he would surely be blessed with a witch willing to bask in his success.
The lobby darkened, and after a short moment of silence, Farriss quietly exited the building, eager to deliver the news to Agro. His witch was on the west coast.
Chapter 1
2010—Oregon (Clatsop State Forest)
LAYLA’S DREAMS HAD NEVER BEEN haunted by the boogeyman. Nightmares that invaded her subconscious state always came in the form of other people’s suffering, not her own.
The horrors haunting her now were no different. Her mother’s heart exploding mere seconds after giving birth to her; her father’s wistful smile as he died in a flash of agony, a final sacrifice for the daughter he loved more than life.
Having just seen these things through a magical ring imprinted with her parents’ memories, it was no wonder the sad images haunted the sleep that followed. What came next, however, wasn’t a manifestation of memories.
Even in her unconscious state, Layla understood this, as her perception shifted the moment her dad’s world went black. No longer was she an outsider looking in, bodiless and still. Now she was flesh and bone, her veins swelling with blood that roared from a pounding heart. Her senses erupted, ripping her out of a sea of sorrow and into a flood of fire. The flames swelled around her, spitting and flickering—burning tongues starving for flesh. Smoke stung her eyes and irritated her throat, and terrified shrieks filled her ears, piercing both head and heart.
“Layla.”
“Quin,” she gasped, and his masculine scent filled her lungs, soothing her like a steaming cup of coffee on Christmas morning. The flames faded, taking the terrifying screams with them, and comfortable warmth surrounded her in the form of brawny biceps.
Awake but confused, Layla tried to recall falling asleep. Every muscle ached, especially her heart, and she wasn’t sure of her surroundings, only that she was wrapped in Quin Kavanagh’s hug. The tender skin of her eyelids was swollen, and it took four blinks to erase the blurriness. When her vision cleared, she found Quin’s white t-shirt.
Oh god. She’d blubbered all over the most gorgeous man she’d ever met.
“I’m sorry I woke you,” he offered, “but you seemed alarmed.”
Layla tried to figure out where her hands were, and had to wiggle a pinky to do it. They were wedged between her chest and his stomach, and her fingers clutched his shirt. When she opened her mouth to speak, a rough cough scraped her itchy throat.
Quin leaned back and reached for her face, dislodging the onyx spirals stuck to her cheeks. “How do you feel? Need anything?”
“Water,” she croaked.
A glass of water appeared in his hand. Then he eased her into a sitting position and passed it over. “Anything else?”
“No. Thank you.”
She scanned her surroundings as she drained the cup. They were in her parents’ bedroom, which now belonged to her. When she’d first seen it, right before experiencing their memories, she’d gotten the feeling they were reflected in its taste. Now she knew they were. They’d built it bit by bit with magic and extraordinary talent.
Layla squeezed her eyes shut on threatening tears. How were there any left?
She tapped her fingernails on the glass as she stifled
the waterworks. Then she opened her eyes and passed the cup to Quin.
The dish vanished, and he took her jaw, catching a rogue tear with his thumb. “How do you feel?”
She shrugged as she lay back on the pillows and fidgeted with her hair. “Sad, I guess.”
“I’m sure,” he returned, lying beside her and propping his head on his hand. “We don’t have to talk about it right now.”
“I’m tired of crying,” she explained. “My eyes burn.”
“Close them.”
“What?”
“Close your eyes; I’ll make them feel better.”
She skeptically watched him for another moment then did as she was told.
The pad of his thumbs barely touched her lids, and a cooling sensation washed over her eyeballs and the skin around them. By the time he removed his thumbs, everything about her eyes felt normal.
“Wow,” she breathed. “Can you do that to the entire body?”
“Does something else hurt?”
She took his hand and laid it over her heart.
“I’m sorry,” he refused. “I can’t magic that hurt away. I wish I could, but it’s not a physical ailment.”
“It feels physical.”
“That’s why they call it heartache.”
“I guess.” She tried to swallow, which irritated her sore throat, so she pulled his hand to her neck. “How about this one?”
“Close your eyes and relax. This one I can fix.”
She obeyed, and he laid his head on her pillow as he stroked the skin over her esophagus. Within seconds, the swelling receded and the burn extinguished, but she held still, absorbing his soft touch and the warm breath sweeping across her cheek.
“Thank you,” she eventually whispered, laying her hand over his.
“Anytime,” he replied, moving his fingers to her heart. “There are other ways I can help heal this hurt, but they have nothing to do with magic.”
Layla swallowed, painlessly thanks to him. Then she found his eyes, their espresso depths glinting with a touch of amber, just like his wavy hair. He was unbelievably attentive and so far beyond gorgeous the word failed to do him justice, but she couldn’t take advantage of his hospitality any longer, no matter how much she wanted to.
Impassion Page 1