Of Fear and Faith: A Witch and Shapeshifter Romance (Death and Destiny Trilogy Book 1)

by N. D. Jones

  Frowning, the stranger gave Mike a hard you’re-not-worth-my-time look before gazing over Mike’s shoulder and at her. His smile returned and settled firmly on her still-seated form. Angling from behind her godfather, the stranger extended his right hand.

  “Hi, I’m Special Agent Assefa Berber. I assume you’re Dr. Williams, the child psychologist, and professor.”

  Sanura stood and returned the smile. She took the offered hand and shook, trying—futilely—to ignore his unique masculine scent. The scent went straight to all the right places, subtly finding her genetic code and adding his. Impossible. “Yes, it’s nice to meet you, Special Agent Berber. Mike’s told me so much about you.” But not everything. Not nearly.

  In fact, Mike complained about the agent incessantly. To hear him tell the story, his “jackass of a captain” maliciously assigned him to work with “an anal-retentive, smart-ass upstart from a secret division of the FBI.” But Sanura knew that was Mike-speak for he was young, intelligent, talented, and didn’t put up with the older man’s grumpy ways.

  The agent gave Mike a shallow smile and nod. Then his penetrating eyes were back on her, the odd warmth of recognition radiating from him too strong to discount. “Call me Assefa,” he said, upping the wattage of his smile. And, damn, had any man ever smiled at her like that before, all white teeth and unabashed interest?

  She returned his smile. How could she not? “Then you must call me Sanura. Only my patients and students call me Dr. Williams.”

  By the gods, she tried not to stare, but Sanura couldn’t help but notice how tall he was and how devastatingly attractive he looked in his…Armani suit? With her two-inch heels, Sanura matched his height, making him six feet. She normally removed her pumps as soon as the last student exited the lecture hall, but she’d been in a rush, leaving them on as she made her way across campus and to the faculty parking lot. Now she was pleased she’d forgotten, for the extra lift allowed her to look directly into eyes so brown and luscious they reminded Sanura of chocolate ice cream on a sweltering summer’s day—delicious, cool, and never enough.

  Sanura made a quick mental inventory of the shamelessly grinning man. Broad nose and strong chin. Check. Long arms and big hands. Check. Full lips and high cheekbones. Check. Muscular form no suit could mask or do justice. Double-check.

  And then there was his deep, confident voice and the cultured accent of an intelligent, well-bred man. From northeastern Africa, if her guess was correct. Maybe Ethiopia or the Sudan. They were a heady combination, reminding Sanura of all the reasons why she avoided men like Assefa Berber. Powerful. Relentless. Passionate.

  Sanura swallowed. Hard. She’d never considered herself a vain or shallow woman but, damn, the agent knew how to make a fine good first impression.

  Mike stepped between the two again and cleared his throat. “Well, now that the niceties are over, can we get back to business?”

  With effort, Sanura managed to break the spell she’d found herself immersed in and looked down at her godfather. “Of course. Of course. I’m ready to speak with the girl if she’s willing to speak with me.”

  “Let me check with the nurse first before we go in,” Assefa said, giving Sanura one last broad, silly smile before he turned and walked to the nurse’s station, an adorable swagger to his step.

  Sanura glanced quickly to make sure Assefa was preoccupied with the nurse before whirling on Mike, her voice deliberately low. “You know what he is, don’t you?” It was a statement, not a question. He nodded. “And you weren’t going to tell me?” He shook his head. “Is that all you’re going to do, move your head?” He shrugged. Sanura opened her mouth to argue but closed it when she saw Assefa walking back toward them.

  “The nurse said Elizabeth Ferrell is awake and calm. Now is as good a time as any to speak with her.”

  “Good, then let’s go,” Mike responded, then moved with a surprising quickness toward the child’s room.

  Assefa stepped aside, allowing Sanura to walk in front of him. She sensed his eyes on her and smiled, hoping the view was as nice to him as his had been to her when she’d watched him walk to the nurse’s station.

  A woman could lose herself in such a man, but not her. No, that required something she wasn’t prepared to give again—trust. Pity, that. Special Agent Berber seemed like the kind of man that would make a woman want…so much more…too much.

  She gave herself a mental shake. Now wasn’t the time. No, now was about business, a child, a murderer.

  When Sanura entered, young Elizabeth Ferrell wasn’t in bed as she’d expected. Confused, she scanned the small hospital room. It was Assefa, however, who found the child. His deep voice cut through the silence, strong chin gesturing toward the closed closet. “She’s in there.”

  “And how do you know that?” came Mike’s sarcastic voice, a gritty edge Sanura knew unsettled most men. “Wait, wait, don’t tell me. You can hear her breathing, right Agent Berber?”

  “Well, Detective McKutchen, the bathroom door is wide open, and unless the girl leaped out of an unopenable window or is Casper the Friendly Ghost, it’s a safe bet she’s hiding in the closet.” A calm response from the special agent, a response that held controlled steel Mike would be best to take note of. But they didn’t have time for this.

  Sanura shushed the feuding men, walked to the closet, and slowly opened it. Inside, a small girl no older than eight or nine sat. Liberally sprinkled freckles dotted ivory skin. Her curly red, shoulder-length hair looked too much like Little Orphan Annie. The irony of the resemblance not lost on Sanura. The little girl wore duck-print pajamas, probably supplied by a kind hospital staffer to replace her bloody ones. Yeah, Mike had shared that grisly detail as well. Elizabeth was discovered bathed in her parents’ blood but with no visible injuries to her person.

  Poor kid. Her body trembled in the comfortably temperate room. Sanura took her high heels and blazer off and sat beside the fearful girl, Sanura’s back to the men. She reached for her purse, took out a sparkling silver bracelet from which hung charms of various sizes and colors. A blue dolphin, pink flamingo, white rabbit, and multicolored beach balls, a vibrant visual meant to tempt, tease, and bring joyful light to the heart of a child.

  “Would you like to have this?” Sanura held the bracelet in the palm of her hand. So as not to startle the child, she slowly extended her arm until the hand with the bracelet was right beneath Elizabeth’s chin and lowered eyes.

  The girl stared at the bracelet.

  Sanura waited, knowing no good ever came from rushing a traumatized child, especially an eyewitness to a brutal crime. After all, Sanura was a stranger to Elizabeth Ferrell. And hadn’t a stranger just destroyed the girl’s world?

  Watery eyes gazed upward, pained but hopeful.

  Sanura brushed loose curls from Elizabeth’s face. “You have beautiful gray eyes.”

  A timid smile formed, barely-there but quite lovely.

  “If you wear this bracelet the killer won’t be able to find you.”

  A shaky, pale hand reached for it, then stopped. “Are you sure? I–I don’t want it to find me. It found me before. Nowhere to hide. Nowhere to hide.”

  The shaking worsened. Tears fell. Shoulders shook.

  With only thoughts of comfort, Sanura pulled Elizabeth Ferrell from the closet and onto her lap. She didn’t resist, didn’t scream, didn’t flail about, didn’t do anything other than cry and let a stranger soothe her.

  Cradling the child’s head against her shoulder, Sanura was reminded of how overcome she’d been as a child when she would scream herself awake from one of her many nightmares. Her parents would come running, worry and fatigue adding age lines. Her mother would hold Sanura just as she was holding Elizabeth Ferrell now. She would place one thumb at Sanura’s nape, the other thumb at her temple, and then press gently while saying, “I’ve got you, little one. Listen to my heart and breathe.”

  Sanura repeated those soothing words now, and Elizabeth Ferrell did as she said. The sa
me as Sanura had done so many years ago, following her mother’s calming voice, forcing her mind to a task and away from what most frightened her. “I’ve got you, little one,” she repeated. “Listen to your heart, feel it, hold it, see how strongly it beats for you.”

  No longer crying, no longer shaking, Elizabeth Ferrell’s breathing slowed even more. And when the child wrapped one arm around Sanura’s waist, she silently spoke the final words. The words that always managed to locate a rainbow just beyond her emotional storm. And the child in her arms was no different.

  They stayed like that for long, uninterrupted minutes, talking in low tones, Sanura pumping soothing energy through their shared touch. It was a small gift, but an even smaller sacrifice. Sanura gladly accepted the child’s pain and fear, taking it within herself and replacing it with positive, life-affirming energy from Mother Earth. She would dispose of the crippling energy later when she was outside and closer to nature.

  She caught Assefa’s intense eyes when she and the girl finally stood. They were no longer bright with flirtatious mischief but cool and serious. The eyes of a man who wants answers.

  “She likes to be called Betsy,” Sanura informed the men, holding Betsy’s hand as they made their way to the bed.

  Sanura lifted Betsy to the bed and helped her pull the covers up to her chest. Little hands gripped them, tightly holding the sheets to her chest, a shield of woven cotton and little-girl faith.

  Sanura wished she didn’t have to do this now. She’d learned, from Mike, that the sooner a witness was questioned the better, their memory more trustworthy hours versus days or even weeks later. Yet a child was a special kind of witness, their immature minds more fragile than that of an adult. But the men behind Sanura needed information, and Betsy was the only one who could give it to them, no matter how fragile and frightened she may be.

  Sanura retrieved her purse from the floor and fished out a four-by-five notepad and a golf pencil, giving them both to Betsy. “Can you draw me a picture of the person who hurt your mommy and daddy?” Sanura asked in her best soothing voice. The one reserved for her most delicate of patients.

  Betsy tentatively took the items from Sanura. With all the enthusiasm of a death row inmate eating her last meal, the child drew the face and body of her parents’ killer. Once finished, Sanura handed the drawing to Assefa. “Give me a few minutes alone with her. I won’t be long.” She gestured for the door and waited for it to close before she returned her gaze to the little girl.

  “You’re a strong and brave girl, Miss Betsy Ferrell. Your parents would be very proud of you. I can see you’re special.”

  Her little nose wrinkled and her eyes squinted, giving Sanura an appraising look. After a few seconds, she hunched her shoulders, satisfied with whatever she saw in Sanura’s eyes.

  “I’m not supposed to tell or show,” Betsy said in a soft, unsure tone.

  Sanura touched Betsy’s baby soft cheek. “I know. My parents told me the same thing when I was your age.”

  The girl’s eyes piqued at the admission. This time, her smile was wide and reached her eyes. “You’re like me?”

  “Yes. When it’s safe, I’ll take you to a school where there are others like us. You’ll be among friends. My sister is the principal of the lower school, and she’ll make sure you continue your training.” She pulled Betsy into an embrace, then made her a promise she damned well intended to keep. No matter what she had to do. “I won’t let anything happen to you. Wear the charm, sweetie, and never take it off, not even when you bathe.”

  Betsy nodded in relief but clung to Sanura. “She saved me.” A whisper.

  “Who saved you?”

  “The goddess. She protected me from the monster.”

  Sanura pulled back to look into her eyes. Betsy’s gray orbs were as clear and sure as her voice. “Which goddess came to you?” she questioned, thinking a child’s active imagination combined with great fear could cause such an illusion.

  “Sekhmet,” she answered in a low, conspiratorial tone, although it was only the two of them in the room. “She told me to not be afraid. That demons and ghosts exist, but she would protect me.”

  Sanura believed in the goddess Sekhmet, of course. The same way Christians believed in God or Muslims in Allah. But she’d never seen or spoken with the goddess. She smiled at Betsy and kissed her forehead. It was about faith. Who was she to question the child’s story? Betsy Ferrell clearly survived the attack and no one, not Mike or Assefa, had an explanation. “Get some rest. I’ll check on you tomorrow.”

  It was getting late and the child looked beyond exhausted. Sanura should let her sleep. The charm would keep her safe and the monster away. But nothing could keep away Betsy’s nightmares. Nightmares Sanura knew would come for her. The way mine used to come for me.

  “Tell me a story.”

  “What?”

  “A story. My ma always tells me a bedtime story before tucking me in and…”

  Betsy stalled. Lower lip trembled.

  Sanura knew the choke of such pain, knew the hole a parent’s death left, the emptiness and hunger that followed. Betsy’s eyes started to water. Sanura glanced at the closed door. She was stuck between a child in mourning and the emotional freedom the hallway offered. Unwilling to leave the little girl in such a wretched state, Sanura moved back to Betsy’s side.

  “I don’t know any bedtime stories.”

  Betsy gave Sanura a pleading smile, irresistible for the desperate heartache behind the sweet appeal. “All grownups know bedtime stories. Didn’t your ma ever tell you a story when you were a kid?”

  “Yes.” There was one story she knew far too well. “Okay, there’s a story my mother used to tell me.”

  Looking pleased with the response, Betsy slid her tiny frame over in the bed, glanced at the now-vacated space, then back to Sanura.

  Taking the hint, Sanura moved into the abandoned space. She propped her back against the elevated bed and soon found the curly-red-haired girl snuggled against her. This was as close as Sanura wanted to get to motherhood. There were certain places she just wasn’t ready to go. Hell, forget motherhood, she didn’t think she was even ready for a serious relationship. Being burned by a guy tended to have that effect on a woman.

  Sanura smiled down at the child and began her tale. “Once upon a time, in a faraway land, there were many gods and goddesses. They created all that is and would be. They wielded immense power, some more wisely than others. There was one among them, however, who was lonely. Her name was Yemaya, the goddess of all the oceans. She yearned for a family of her own, so she blessed herself with a daughter and named her Mami Wata. Like her mother, Mami Wata had the power to control bodies of water and the creatures therein.”

  She looked down at Betsy again and noticed that the child’s eyes were closed. She started to roll her over when the girl shifted. “Tell me what happened next with the water goddess.”

  Remembering how she used to wrap her arms around her mother’s waist and refuse to go to sleep until she regaled her with at least one story, Sanura figured Betsy wouldn’t allow her to leave until she finished. So, she forged ahead like a new mother wading in knee-high water.

  “Five hundred years passed and Mami Wata became extremely powerful, encouraging mortals to turn away from other gods and worship only her. Sometimes this was achieved through the granting of prayers, but other times it was accomplished through the use of force. Another five hundred years went by, and Yemaya created another daughter to balance out her first. This daughter she named Oya, goddess of wind, thunderbolts, and fire.

  But Mami Wata wasn’t pleased with her younger sister because humans began to flock to Oya. Viewing this as an act of betrayal, angered, Mami Wata sought revenge against the humans. She brought forth floods to destroy their civilizations and caused droughts, denying the much-needed life source for themselves, their crops and their livestock. This angered Oya, who, in turn, used her powers to return peace to the ravaged lands. With this, war bro
ke out between the sisters, each one trying to control the other, as well as the land and its people. It’s said the war raged for years until Ra, the sun god and his daughter, Sekhmet, intervened. It was decreed that every five hundred years, a servant of Mami Wata and a servant of Oya would be born to finish the goddesses’ battle for Earth.

  According to the legend, each goddess selected a strong witch family to pour her power into. Each woman born into that family was endowed with powerful magic that remains dormant until it is passed to that one witch who will serve the goddesses when the time comes. In the case of the fire witch, her natural ability to cast fire spells would be greater than the average fire witch’s. And because she is a servant of Oya, she would also have the ability to cast wind and lightning spells. As far as the water witch, legend notes the monstrous power of this witch. She doesn’t acquire control over any other earth element, but her ability to manipulate water spells are five times that of any other water witch, more than enough to flood a city the size of Baltimore.”

  This time when she looked down, Betsy was asleep, her deep, heavy breathing a sign Sanura could cautiously dislodge her body from the child’s firm grip. Sanura placed a pillow where she’d been, and Betsy snuggled in tight around it.

  Sanura placed one finger on the bracelet and another against the pulse point of Betsy’s wrist, and then shifted into her second sight. The magical vision allowed her to see the aura signature of another preternatural. Elizabeth Ferrell’s aura was thin but steady, normal for a witch as young as she. As she grew older, her aura would strengthen and thicken, able to hold and sustain her increased magical energy. But right now, it was just a thin white layer, almost translucent in its paleness.

  Focusing on the pulse point and the underdeveloped aura, Sanura closed her eyes, called up an old but familiar spell, and whispered the words of protection. The bracelet began to heat, magic slipping from Sanura and into the dangling charms. The warming magic slinked around Betsy’s wrist, sizzled, hissed, and then disappeared into the jewelry, now tuned with the girl’s aura, making for an even more potent charm.