Shattered (Tempest Coven Novels)

by Wendolyn Baird

  A twinge of annoyance crosses me, and I struggle to keep my voice neutral. This man is so pompous and disrespectful I can hardly bear it. Their snide little side comments about Elliot are so common at this point, they don't even bother to hide them anymore. Sometimes I suspect they gave him a lower class not because of his ability, but because he didn't get along with their instructors.

  “Well anyway, son, I've been meaning to talk to you about that store of yours. It's got to be a bit to handle since your father passed -”

  “I'm sorry sir, I'm aware of the council's interest in it, but my family is still grieving, and we aren't ready to talk about what we're going to do with it yet.”

  “Oh, well then,” he stumbles, unaccustomed to being cut off or denied.

  A taller man steps forward, his rank obviously higher than the cautious individuals that hang back behind the lamppost. Deep shadows hollow out the space beneath his cheek bones, lending him a skeletal appearance, and I recognize the sleeve of ink that covers his right arm. Wide lips curl upward to offer an arbitrary smile, but his eyes remain unchanged by the movement.

  “Of course. We are so sorry to intrude on your grief. It's just that it is of considerable interest and your father never had the time to fully sit and talk with us about it. It seems like our taking it over could be a nice... memorial to him.”

  Mr. Bowens, always so polite, but so cold. The council's purpose is order, protection, and education; but their practical presence is also a nuisance. The whole lot of them seems to be teeming with snakes; benevolent when they wish to be, but unrelenting when it comes to things they want. Like my father's shop. That they've been asking about since an hour or so after we buried him. So much for a proper send off.

  “Yes. Well, like I said, my family and I are still grieving. Maybe after some pain subsides, we can get back to you. But right now, if you'll excuse me,” I motion to the restaurant, and use my arm as a guide to awkwardly move past them.

  “Oh yes, were you meeting someone?” Engelbert raises his eyebrows and his wide eyes remind me of an owl observing a small mammal. Not sure if they saw Tania enter, I feign sheepishness and scratch the back of my neck.

  “Oh, you know, just someone I met at the festival today. She came by my booth and mentioned she was passing through, so I figured I should show her some of Hildrun's best food.”

  Engelbert takes the bait and smiles good-naturedly. “Ah, a mortal! Well, I guess we won't keep you. But remember Mr. Riordan, there are plenty of mages around I'm sure wouldn't mind a date as well.”

  “Oh of course, sir. It's just dinner. But, uh, I really should get in there.”

  Without glancing back, I rush to the door and catch Tania's elbow just as she's following the hostess to a table. Her face flashes in surprise at my touch, but softens in recognition after a moment, as she moves to the side so that we can walk at an even pace.

  Chapter 7: Atlas

  WARM, DARK LIGHTING and cool bricks softly offset the pungent aroma of basil and bread. Pulling a chair out for Tania, I skirt around to the back of the table and ease myself into a seat. The line near the door is visible from here, and a harried hostess swings her head back and forth from the crowd at her podium to the filled tables behind her.

  “You know for such a small town, your restaurants seem to have no elbow room,” Tania sulks, deep purple nails tapping against her menu in agitation.

  The lights overhead flicker for a second and a cold breeze shoots through the restaurant. Glancing at the door I see it's still closed, and the sky is clearing, allowing the stars to peek through the glass.

  “I'm assuming that was you,” I venture cautiously.

  “I get you're not so thrilled right now,” I continue. “But maybe announcing your arrival isn't the best thing. Elliot's take on you is likely to be a popular one, I'm sorry to say.”

  My stomach is twisting, and I feel like I can't catch my breath. I should be relaxed, but I still feel like someone is at my back.

  “Okay, see that's something I don't understand. What happened to this town? I've met mages before, tons of mages before and although they've all been somewhat private, nobody's been so hostile before. Is there something wrong with me specifically?”

  She leans forward and pushes her hair back behind her silver studded ears, waiting on my response. Her grey eyes are wide with curiosity and her face seems so open; I can't believe my nerves are the result of anything she's done. Sipping some water to try and alleviate the dryness in my throat, I scan the room again and respond.

  “You already know the geography, but besides that, like we told you before... every witch that's come through has left some sort of destruction or heartbreak.”

  She raises an eyebrow at me and cocks her head to the side. “Every witch? Every single one?”

  I shrug uncomfortably and carry on; my face feels flushed but I swear the air is growing colder.

  “Yes ma'am, every single one. I mean the last one. Selma, she was a drastic one. Shrewd from the moment she showed up. There were a few disagreements, a few cursed businesses back and forth, and by the time it came to an all-out confrontation, she landed us with a sinkhole in the middle of the street- seven feet wide. Didn't even bother helping the mortals that got stuck in it before she flew off. Before that was a girl named Mary, who tore apart a pretty high-profile engagement and then left the groom flat, although in my opinion, that was more his fault than anyone else's.”

  Counting on my fingers I think back to each one I'd met.

  “Gabriel meant well but he set off a minor quake after the bank denied a home loan he was after; Willow was bothered by a drought and caused a flood; three different women fell in love with Flint, and he was barely here for a month - they were brokenhearted for the longest time; and Thea caught a whole neighborhood block on fire. I was a kid when she was in town though, so forgive me the details.”

  Sitting back, I trace the edge of my fingernail, and eye Tania's face for a response. Her eyebrows are drawn close, and her mouth is pursed together, lower lip sticking out slightly.

  The air is still cool, but no longer icy and the knot in my stomach has lessened. I'm positive someone has spell work at play, but Tania's feels like a protective layer.

  Tapping my fingers against the deck of cards in my jeans, I scan the room mentally. No one person's aura stands out, and the energy nearby is pretty neutral as well, so it doesn't seem like the threat is coming from anybody in the restaurant. Still, something ominous is lurking.

  “You feel it too, don't you?”

  Tania's words curl across the table, delicate and vibrant as autumn leaves. I hate that she's the one still expecting all the answers when I don't even know if I need to rush her out of town before disaster strikes, or be on guard for yet another witch to throw off the town's balance.

  She continues talking without giving me a chance to respond, her tone carrying an edge of frustration. “It isn't me. Or another witch. You were right about that... I really wish you weren't, but I haven't seen any signs of another witch around here.”

  Small words lift from the tables around us, but the overall hum of conversation is so loud I can't make out any meaning. It's so loud in fact that I find myself almost craning over my salad just to make out what Tania is saying.

  She's pulling things out of her bag and starts singing softly to herself. The song sounds like some sort of lullaby, but I don't know the language, and that in itself is surprising. In her hands are two carved stones, one a white crystal pendant, the other a miniscule cat carved out of hematite.

  Okay, yes, usually mortals either don't notice, or don't believe magic is real when they see it practiced... but most of us also don't just pull out tools and start working it in front of them either. Clearing my throat, I scoot my chair around closer, hoping to hide her from view.

  Sliding her salad to the side, she continues to sing under her breath and places the cat immediately in front of her body, and then quickly twists the crystal, causi
ng it to spin in circles like a child's top. I should say something, stop her. Why do my words keep halting in my throat?

  She shields her tools with her hands, hiding them from the other tables, but even so, she's glowing. Literally glowing. Her skin reminds me of the moon, pale and bright, and her hair is rising up from her shoulders and face, with small blue sparks dancing between the strands. As her pendant spins it changes from a cloudy white color to a deep violet. Everywhere the point touches the tablecloth is gold, drawing lines outward like the rings of a tree.

  I can't remember watching any of the other witches working their magic, but this is incredible. My objections fall away as awe and longing wash over me. All my reservations about her seem to simply float away, and a tiny part of my brain wonders why, but I just don't care.

  Sweeping my bowl to the side, I pull my cards out of my pocket and start shuffling, wanting to help. Her energy is irresistible, and whatever she’s searching for, I feel the need to search for it as well. The thick cardstock hits my palms with familiarity, each one emblazoned with a different language and symbol. As the cards move more fluidly, the tattoos that run across my body are beginning to warm as I feel the magic from the earth rising up to meet my hand.

  “Stop!” Tania gasps, her pendant turning black and falling suddenly.

  Letting go of my cards I realize her hair is falling back down and there's a terrified expression on her face, just as an agonizing fire blazes through each of my tattoos. Pain overcomes me as I realize the earth is betraying me.

  My eyes water while my throat clenches in an effort not to scream. My arms, ribs, and legs are all throbbing as though someone is pouring boiling water on me. The world is turning black before my eyes and I feel complete panic consume me as I open my mouth to speak, but fall over, vaguely aware of more pain as I hit what must be the floor.

  “Atlas? Atlas!” Tania's voice is floating through my head in waves of static, more feeling than sound. I groan against the pain. Why do her words cut through the air? Everything she says is dripping in energy - bells, music, and now this fuzzy, tinny noise. My body is sore, and my head is heavy, even lifting my eyelids is a struggle.

  Chapter 8: Tania

  THROWING MYSELF ON the floor, I cradle Atlas' head in my hands, his thick hair thankfully free of blood. There's a steady dripping off wine rolling off the table and onto my legs, and the frantic fear rolling about my chest reminds me of the last time I held someone like this.

  Focus, Tania. Focus!

  I can't afford to get lost in memories or draw more of a crowd. The lights shut off when the magic got away from us, and people are rushing out the door in panic, spurred on from a day of heavy drinking and the sound of fireworks outside, mistaking the noise for gunfire. Thank God for that timing.

  “Why does everything hurt? What the hell just happened?” He slurs, his hands trembling in pain.

  I choke back a sob and try to pull him to his feet, his weight barely shifting in my efforts. “Your cards started scorching, and your tattoos...”

  I don't know what to say, I could have sworn his tattoos were being branded from the inside out, as though molten lava were flowing through the ink. His skin was burning red hot, glowing against the dark like embers in a hearth. My heart is wrenching its way through my rib cage, fighting against the pain of my terror. I frantically run my hands up and down his broad arms, searching for a remnant of that heat, proof of the internal fire that consumed him.

  He's feverish, but there's no burning. Am I insane? There's no way I imagined that, especially not when what he was doing was so stupid.

  Atlas stumbles against the table, allowing more wine to spill over and around the plates, and I sweep his cards, my pendant, and the cat into my purse with a brush of a napkin. Steering him out the side door, we slip past the crowd and into the parking lot, both of us shaking in heavy night air.

  “What were you thinking, jumping into my spell,” I hiss. Better a hiss than a sob. “Don't you know not to mix magics? You could have been killed!”

  Fear makes way for anger, and I can't believe I didn't notice him pulling out those cards until they were smoking. Who should I be angrier with? Him, or me?

  Atlas lags behind me, short of breath as he points off into the direction he must have parked. “Hang on, just give me a minute. I don't even have my keys out. Sorry, still a little tired. Did I actually pass out? Or did I just fall?”

  My jaw drops, and for half a second, I freeze. His heart paused for a second after he hit the ground, his pulse literally stopped. How is it possible he doesn't realize how close to death he still is?

  “You complete fool! Give me those keys, I'm driving! It's a miracle you're still standing. We need to get you to my place while there's still time to fix you.”

  Clicking the panic button on the fob, I practically drag him by his wrist, my throat nearly closing in nausea as I try to block out the risk he just took. The entire reason mages and witches usually stay apart is because mixing the different strains of magic is so explosive. I can't understand how he managed to become a Class Six and not know that; or know that and act so recklessly.

  Pushing him into the passenger seat, I speed to the edge of town, making my way back to the decrepit trailer park I'd left the RV. Half of me feels guilty for letting him get hurt, but the bigger part, and I hate how much bigger that part is, is terrified that with how hurt he is, he won't be much help finding Sasha.

  I'm a terrible person with an impossible goal.

  “This is insane. Bossing me around, telling me I don't know my town,” Atlas mumbles disoriented beside me, no doubt unaware I can hear his slurred whispers. “I don't know you; you know. You could be a dark witch for all I know, but here I am. Why does everything hurt?”

  Oh. Maybe he does realize I can hear him. He's just really out of it.

  “You stepped into my spell. It made the energy rebound, knocking out the lights, and nearly lit you on fire. There's probably still tainted energy shifting around somewhere in there, so we're going back to my place for a little detox. I'm going to take care of you.”

  Atlas groans in response, and slumps down lower in the seat, his head drooping when I pull around the bend. Pulling into the trailer park, the unsettling combination of gnats milling around lamp poles and concrete littered in cigarette butts has me wrinkling my nose. I don't like the idea of doing a cleansing ritual here, but with how sick Atlas looks, I don't have a choice.

  I fumble around to the front of his car, trying to gently guide him to his feet, but it's no use. At somewhere over six feet tall, he’s just too much for me to support. I begin to fall to the ground, and then miraculously, he's the one catching me, his face turning grey from the effort.

  “Sorry,” he whispers, moving to stand us both upright.

  I can feel eyes on us like vultures, waiting for me to show weakness, to reveal that I can't save this man. My jaw hardens into place, and I shake my head fiercely. “No, you're good. You're going to be fine.”

  The flimsy door falls open at my touch, as my temporary home is more guarded by spells than the actual walls. That's okay though, I'm not afraid of mortal thieves... and anyone else after me won't be deterred by an errant door or lock.

  I leave Atlas slouched on the sofa, as I fly across the narrow space to my potion cabinet. My hands slide past everyday tinctures and sprays, to a small wooden box inlaid with quartz of every color.

  “Stop it, it's just my sneakers,” Atlas is muttering - no, complaining out loud. He's noticeably grouchy while in pain, but those complaints let me know he's not as bad off as I'd thought. As he should be. My hands shake as I run back to him, ignoring the rattling of the box as its contents protest my poor nerves.

  Elara is pulling at his laces, wondering what this stranger is doing in our living room. At her insistent yowling, he covers his ears. “Oh, come on, I know I'm a mage and you don't like me! You don't have to make my headache worse.”

  “Hush, Elara,” I scold, while w
ringing out a washcloth. “He doesn't speak Familiar.”

  Sprinkling each corner with a different oil, I toss the cloth at Atlas, and move to grab a bucket.

  “Put that on the back of your neck,” I explain when he holds the thing away from his face in exhausted bewilderment. Damn, he looks bad. His olive skin is now a nasty grey, and his eyes waver in an out of focus.

  “It will help the chills," I encourage him, as gently as I can make my voice.

  Textbook first aid for my coven, always treat the symptoms first so that you can have cooperation fixing the cause.

  I pour a spoonful of tarry liquid into a spoon and reluctantly hand it to him. I hate this part. Every single time I've watched a spell gone wrong, I hate, hate, hate this part.

  “Drink up.” I beam at him falsely, and then promptly shove the bucket beneath his chin, resigned to the acrid smell of bile and sounds of heaving I hate to inflict.

  You can't cleanse without a detox.

  “What the hell?!” Anger seeps through his words as an accusation springs readily behind the question.

  “If I left the tainted energy to fester in your body, you would have died by natural poisoning by dawn. Don't you know any of this? We had to get it out.”

  I turn away, holding the vomit away from my body as I run it back to the bathroom, eager to get rid of the entire bucket if need be.

  “We don't, different types of magic, that's not... we've never had that problem here. I told you, witches just don't stick around.”

  This stops me cold, my hands frozen despite the scalding water pouring over them in the sink.

  “Never? You've never even heard of magic mixing?”

  It's as though someone has hit a pause button in my brain, and my thoughts can't move forward. I just don't understand.

  He stands unsteadily, ducking his head to avoid one of the dozen planters swinging from my ceiling.

  “No,” he croaks, taking another step towards me, his strength obviously returning despite the irritation of his vocal cords.