by Lola Taylor
“Yeah,” he said dryly, his voice whispery like hers. “The ‘creepy as hell’ vibe isn’t very welcoming. They really should fire their interior decorator.”
She snorted. “Thanks for making me laugh. Takes my mind off how dangerous this all is.”
“You mean we’re not doing this for shits and giggles?”
“I wish.”
He swallowed hard. Verika squeezed his hand. It’s all right, she said through their bond. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.
He squeezed back and stared into her eyes. Neither am I.
“Am I interrupting something?”
They both jumped; Elijah choked on a curse, and Verika gave a little squeak. The scenery had abruptly shifted, morphing into a tropical rain forest stuffed with lush greenery and neon-colored blossoms the size of Elijah’s hand. A light floral smell coated the air, rising from the steam covering the surface of the lagoon like fog. Lounging in its cerulean depths was a stunningly beautiful naked woman. Her dark hair hung damp down her back, her muscles rippling as she lifted a butter-yellow sponge and squeezed it. Water poured down her outstretched arm as she slowly scraped the sponge across it.
She looked over her shoulder, flashed a coy smile at Elijah. “Care to join me? I was beginning to think you two weren’t going to show.”
Elijah and Verika glanced at each other. That’s Mistress Black? she asked.
In the flesh…sort of. He glared at his old flame and immediately felt sick. Her packaging was pretty, sure. But how on earth could he ever have fallen for that sick sociopath?
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Mistress Black tsked her finger at them, as if scolding a couple of children. “It’s not polite to have a telepathic conversation when I can hear what you’re saying.”
Verika’s eyes shot up.
“That’s right, dear,” Mistress Black said. “When you’re astral projecting, you’re technically already inside your head. Only the strongest, and most practiced, witches and warlocks can manage to keep their thoughts secret when traveling between planes. It’s a rather marvelous trick. I’ll teach it to you sometime.”
“The only thing you’ve taught me is how much of a monster you are.”
“Monster? That’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think?”
“You prefer ‘bitch’?”
Mistress Black laughed, flashing a proud smile—and a whole lot of everything else, good grief—as she turned to face them. “Your great-great-whatever grandfather—my husband—had a snarky sense of humor. Could be a brute on some days.” Her eyes sparkled softly with distant memories. “I miss him every day. I see a little bit of him in you. And me. You have my cheekbones, my hair and eye color.”
“I’m nothing like you.”
“No?” Mistress Black glanced down. “Well, I guess it can’t be discerned in this form.” With a snap of her fingers, her figure shifted, turning fuzzy like an analog TV screen before changing shape entirely.
Verika gasped, and Elijah went still. His lungs had stopped working, as apparently had his ability to blink. It wasn’t so much his fear of magic rearing up as it was pure and utter shock.
The woman who stood before him looked nothing like Mistress Black but resembled every bit of his Verika. From her long scarlet tresses to her ivory skin, he would have thought he was looking at Verika’s doppelganger had he not seen the wrinkles around her eyes, forehead, and mouth. Age had begun to wither the woman’s fine face, yet it only served to enhance her enchanting beauty. Startlingly green eyes, the exact same shade as Verika’s, gazed back at them from a face that was barely smiling, as if holding some dear secret close.
She wore a dress of dark-green velvet, which contrasted nicely with her flame-colored hair, and made her look like an Irish lass of old.
Verika stared, going white. “What is this?” she whispered.
Mistress Black’s voice was different when she spoke, more feathery and lilting with the ghost of an Irish accent. “Me”—she gestured down at her new form—“as I once was. And will be again.”
“This is impossible.” Verika’s eyes shone with tears. A miserable frown trembled on her delicate pink lips as she shook her head. “We can’t be related. It’s all a lie.”
“Would it really be so terrible?” Mistress Black stepped, or rather, floated, out of the pool. She landed on the grass, barefooted and completely dry. She took a step toward Verika, lifting a pale hand as if to caress her cheek. Verika jerked back, nearly stumbling.
Mistress Black’s hand froze. Those delicate fingers squeezed into a fist, trembling slightly, before she at last let her arm fall at her side. “I cannot blame you for your disbelief. But you can’t deny our similarities. Not only in looks, but in power.”
Verika remained mute, staring at Mistress Black with a mixture of awe and revulsion.
Elijah saw the longing in his mate’s shining eyes. Saw how much she wanted to belong to a tribe, to find out about her true family. It broke his heart. His parents might have been pieces of shit in many ways, but at least he knew who they were. He couldn’t imagine growing up without knowing where he came from. Knowing that the family he had, no matter how great, was a lie, and only there because someone else didn’t want him.
The breeze shifted, rustling the vibrant greenery. Mistress Black’s and Verika’s messy red curls lifted; the wind circled around them and sparked with green and purple embers.
Elijah instantly tensed. The ozone stench burned his nose as it grew stronger.
“What are you doing?” murmured Verika, looking around almost in wonder.
“I’m not doing anything,” Mistress Black replied earnestly. “It’s my magic simply responding to yours. Like calls to like. Your magic recognizes mine, and vice versa. They call to each other.”
Verika lifted a hand. Shadows and wind coiled around her wrist, tangling down her arm.
“The weight of our power is great, is it not?” Mistress Black asked seductively, watching her war with the worry trying to creep onto her face. “Let me ease the burden. Allow me to show you how to harness your power properly.”
The shadows whirling around Verika’s arm turned into snakes made of smoky air. They hissed, baring their fangs and staring at her with glittering purple eyes. Verika simply waved the apparitions away, and they evaporated. She crossed her arms, raised her chin. Ice settled in her gaze. “I will never let you touch my power.”
“Even if it would save your friends’ lives?”
Elijah and Verika drew still. A string of curse words tumbled through Elijah’s head as Mistress Black chuckled.
“Thought so.” She smirked. “If you need to see proof they’re alive before bargaining…” With a snap of her fingers, the air opened up to reveal a darkened bedroom. Candles burned all around a huge canopied bed oozing red silk—on which lay two familiar, sleeping figures.
Danica and Alara looked perfectly unharmed, each dozing peacefully, as if they were merely taking a nap.
With another snap, the portal vanished. Mistress Black crossed her arms, mirroring Verika’s haughty gaze. Her eyes shimmered with triumph. The bitch had already thought she’d won. Elijah knew she had the moment Verika opened her mouth.
“I propose a trade,” she said evenly.
Mistress Black raised a brow. “I’m listening.”
“I’ll join your coven if you lift the brand from Elijah and return Danica and Alara to their mates.”
“Absolutely not!” roared Elijah. “I’ll die first before handing you over to that psychopathic bitch!”
“Quite possible, if the brand’s curse has its way with you. By the way, have either of you started vomiting blood yet?”
The thought of Verika enduring that kind of pain on his behalf was too much to bear. Paling, he glanced at her; horror gripped his chest and made it tight.
“Thought so,” Mistress Black said smugly. “You haven’t considered all the consequences, have you, my pet? So handsome but not very thorough, are we? A
nd I thought wolves were supposed to look after their mate’s well-beings above all else.”
“We do,” he said through gritted teeth.
“Well, I hate to tell you, but you and your delectable brothers are doing a piss-poor job of it.”
“Shut up!” Elijah roared. “There will be no bargaining.”
“Elijah,” Verika said quietly, resting a hand on his. “Let me do this. Please.” She widened her eyes slightly.
Trust me.
The voice was hers but barely audible, as if a ghost were talking to him. He wasn’t even sure he’d heard it. Part of him wanted to reach out to her with his mind, through their bond, but he didn’t want Mistress Black to hear.
Before he could respond, Verika turned. “We are in agreement, yes?” She extended her hand.
Mistress Black stared at it for a moment and at last shook. “Agreed. I’ll send you a time and place to meet me. Come alone and don’t be late. Oh, and don’t worry about your friends. They’ll be fine for now—unless you decide not to show, of course. Or bring backup or try anything cute. Then I can’t make any promises as to their well-being.”
With that, she grabbed her skirt and twirled, vanishing in a whirlwind of shimmering green sparkles.
Her laugh echoed all around them as the dream plane cracked and shattered, and Verika and Elijah tumbled back to reality.
Elijah slammed into his body, feeling as if he had just fallen a thousand feet and hit concrete. He jerked upright, his lungs burning as he gasped for air for a few terrifying seconds. Beside him, Verika did the same. Her lovely face was flushed, her eyes wide and frightened.
Asking “are you all right?” seemed like a stupid question at the moment. Instead, he settled for grasping her hand and holding it close. Letting her know he was there, that he was real and she was safe.
For the moment.
“So?” Nik’s gaze bounced back and forth between them after giving them a moment to catch their breath. “Did you find out anything? Are Danica and Alara all right?”
Verika cast a sidelong glance at her mate. We can’t tell them about our bargain, she said telepathically. Otherwise, they’ll never let us go through with it.
I don’t want you to go through with it as is, Elijah said. But I assume that look you gave me in the dream world meant that you had some sort of plan up your sleeve.
A slight nod.
“Would you guys cut the telepathic bullshit and just give us some goddamned answers?” Nik said, exasperated. The guy looked as if he were on the verge of pulling his own hair out.
“We talked to Mistress Black,” Verika said calmly. “Danica and Alara are safe.”
“Why do I sense a ‘but’ in there somewhere?” Gage asked warily.
Verika took a deep breath, prepared herself. “She said she would exchange them…for me.”
“Absolutely not,” Nik growled.
“Finally, something we can agree on,” Elijah muttered under his breath.
“What does she want with you?” Gage’s eyes narrowed.
“I’m not sure,” Verika said quickly, cutting Elijah off before he could answer. “I assume it’s because we’re both Black Witches. There aren’t many of us in the world.”
“So, she wants to, what, bond with you or something? You’re telling me she’s suddenly feeling lonely, like an outcast?” Nik snorted. “Yeah, right. Give me a break. She wants something else from you.”
“It sounds like a trap,” Gage said.
“Well, duh,” Elijah said dryly.
“She seemed keenly interested in my heritage,” Verika said. “My late mentor, Satine, knew my mother—my real mother. My mother…kept a journal, which I now have, about me, that’s supposed to ‘reveal everything about my past.’”
“And have you read it?” Nik asked with surprising gentleness. He gazed at her with concern.
A low, nearly inaudible growl rumbled in Elijah’s throat. Mine, she heard his inner wolf speak into her mind.
Verika placed a hand over his to calm him, to reassure him Nik was not a threat. Elijah’s hackles lowered, though the flint remained in his eyes as he stared at his brother.
“No.” A shiver ran through her, and she hugged herself.
Elijah put a possessive arm around her. “Before you open your big mouth, Nik, I already know what you’re going to say. We should start there, with the journal. Maybe it contains some clues that will help us figure out why Mistress Black is so keenly interested in my mate.”
Verika nearly rolled her eyes at how he emphasized “my mate.” And she would have, had terror not slammed into her at the thought of opening that book, at smelling her mentor’s scent on its worn leather cover. The scent of the incense she’d burned in her magic shop, where the journal had been stored for so long.
Verika looked up at him. I don’t want to, Elijah. I don’t want to know.
I know. But we might not have a choice. He nuzzled her neck with his nose, took in her scent. I’ll be there with you the entire time, if you need me.
She took a deep breath; the room had gone silent as everyone awaited her answer.
“Okay,” she breathed. “I’ll check the journal.”
She’d locked the book away long enough, hadn’t even dared look at it. Because every time she did, she was both reminded of what and whom she’d lost and that her parents hadn’t wanted her.
But her reservations seemed petty compared to what was at stake now. She knew she couldn’t put it off any longer. Not if she was to help the ones she loved.
It was, finally, time to learn about her heritage.
Verika’s hands shook as she held the journal. Its spine was crinkled, the indigo leather worn light-blue in places. A single red ribbon bound it around the center. Words were scribbled across the edges of the cover—a protection spell. Her mother—or possibly even Satine or her father—obviously hadn’t wanted just anyone to read it. She studied it, stroked the boundaries of the spell with her invisible magic fingers. Curiously, she couldn’t tell whether the spell had been broken or not, it was that subtle. Which meant Gerard had either been lying to her when he’d told her the answers she sought were in this book, or he was advanced enough of a warlock to be able to break through the spell and it had snapped back into place on its own once he was done fishing through the journal.
Verika was betting on the latter. Gerard had been a powerful warlock.
But he wasn’t strong enough in the end, was he? her conscience thought with dark satisfaction.
She still hadn’t forgotten the cold malice in Alara’s eyes, so at odds with the sunshine in the garden they’d sat in, when she’d asked, “And, exactly, why am I your favorite witch?”
“Because he killed my family,” she’d said simply.
In that moment, Verika didn’t feel so guilty, so vile, for killing him anymore.
Which made her wonder, again, whether these powers were turning her into a monster.
Thrusting that chilling thought aside, she focused on reading the spell, trying to figure out where it started. Find the seams, Satine had told her. Find the seams and then rip them apart.
Her eyes scanned the words once, twice, three times. It was a riddle; the words were all rearranged so that in order to break the spell, you had to put the riddle back in the right order and hope the damn thing didn’t backfire on you when you broke it.
Elijah and Verika stood in their room alone, save for the guards posted outside the open door. Elijah had rolled his eyes when he saw them take their posts, citing how helpful they had been when Alara and Danica had been abducted. Verika calmed him, saying they could use all the help they could get. Magic could be unpredictable. You never knew what was going to happen. Besides, Verika appreciated Nik and Gage’s attempt at privacy and protection all in one. It was thoughtful and sweet, and reminded her they still cared about her, even if things were dicey between them and Elijah.
Elijah studied the journal cover with her. “Can you open it? I can’t mak
e any sense of the incantation.”
“I can,” Verika murmured, barely hearing him. Her mind was so wrapped around trying to break the spell, to piece it back together in the right order. She went over to the desk and retrieved a pen and a legal pad. Sitting down, she scribbled words in different arrangements, furiously crossing words out and writing them in a different order. Thirty silent minutes passed, filled with nothing but the slash of her pen, before she at last got it figured out. And when she did, she laughed.
“What is it?” Elijah got up off the bed, where he’d floated off to in order to give her space to think.
“Satine must have put this on here.” Verika cleared her throat. “‘The only one worthy of a pass is he or she who doesn’t have their head up their ass.’ It was in Pig Latin, which Satine was very fond of.”
Soon as she finished speaking the silly incantation, the ribbon lazily uncoiled itself and the journal flipped open to the first page.
Elijah blinked. “Seriously? That’s what the big, bad spell said?”
Verika smiled and nodded. “Yep. Whoever said magic had to be serious?”
He looked at the journal and shook his head. “I’m gonna go lay back down. All this magic’s making my head hurt.” He rested a hand on her shoulder. “I’m here if you need me.”
“Thanks,” she said softly, squeezing his hand. She ran her eyes over her mate. His face hadn’t been as pale this time, she thought with a small sigh of relief.
Then it hit her—what she was about to read—and it felt as though a rock had dropped to the pit of her stomach. She turned to face the journal with a heavy heart as her mate padded over to the bed. Even after she heard the mattress crinkle and her mate’s soft snores filled the room, she couldn’t bring herself to start reading.
She stared at the dried ink, the date that had been so painstakingly written holding her gaze captive.
It was her birthday.
She held her breath—and started at the beginning.
Dear diary,
I can’t believe I still write those words. “Dear diary.” It sounds so juvenile. Some people name their journals, but I can’t bring myself to do that. It doesn’t feel right to me.