Deep Magic (The Witches of Cleopatra Hill Book 13)

by Christine Pope

  Deep Magic

  A Witches of Cleopatra Hill Novel

  Christine Pope

  Dark Valentine Press

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, places, organizations, or persons, whether living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  DEEP MAGIC

  Copyright © 2017 by Christine Pope

  Published by Dark Valentine Press

  Cover design by Lou Harper

  Ebook formatting by Indie Author Services

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems — except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews — without permission in writing from its publisher, Dark Valentine Press.

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  Contents

  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

  Epilogue

  The Arizona Witch Clans

  Also by Christine Pope

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Lucinda Santiago sat huddled on an uncomfortable antique chair in a corner of her bedroom. The day outside the sheer curtains that framed the window was dark, dank, and gray. A little early for Southern California’s stereotypical June gloom of clouds and low fog, since it was only the start of May, but the weather matched her mood perfectly.

  No, actually, if it was going to accurately reflect her mental state, then rain should be pouring down, the skies torn apart by thunder and lightning. This part of California didn’t get that kind of weather very often, though.

  Muffled voices drifted up to her from downstairs, although Lucinda couldn’t make out whose they were. Joaquin Escobar must be one of them; the dark warlock from Central America never seemed to leave the house, forced everyone to come and pay him court here in the home that had once belonged to Lucinda’s parents, the Santiago clan’s prima and her consort…before Joaquin murdered them.

  Not for the first time, Lucinda wondered why no one in her clan had tried to fight Joaquin, hadn’t tried to get some kind of vengeance for their dead prima and for Simón Santiago, who had been the true head of the clan for as long as Lucinda could remember. True, the magic of her fellow clan members was useless against a warlock like Joaquin, since he was capable of nullifying the powers of anyone who got within ten feet of him, but a bullet could travel a lot farther than ten feet. Or did Joaquin Escobar’s strange and terrible roster of talents include protection against civilian — nonmagical — weapons as well?

  Lucinda didn’t know. She also didn’t know why she was even still alive. Unlike her cousin Marisol, who had become prima of the Santiago clan with the death of her Aunt Beatriz, Lucinda had no real value to Joaquin Escobar. She supposed she should be glad that the only fate she’d suffered so far was to be confined to her room. Marisol was a glassy-eyed shell of her former self, a pretty doll who appeared to exist only to do Joaquin’s bidding.

  This behavior frightened Lucinda more than almost anything else, because she’d seen it before. She’d seen it in herself years ago, back when Matías Escobar decided to make her his toy in an attempt to gain true power in the Santiago clan, rather than being forever dismissed as someone adopted into the witch family only because Simón Santiago had needed the healing gifts Matías’ mother possessed. Lucinda and her father had had their differences, but she could only thank him and bless him for being strong enough to expel Matías from the clan, thus freeing her from his influence.

  But Joaquin wasn’t interested in Lucinda. Not in that way, at any rate. True, he had seemed to be in a very good mood these past few days, although she wasn’t sure precisely why. One time when Marisol brought up a dinner tray for Lucinda, Joaquin had come along for some reason, stood off to one side as the prima handed the tray over to their captive. After Marisol was done with her task, Joaquin had bent down and pressed his lips against her neck, had put his hands over her stomach in a gesture both possessive and significant. The new prima might look as slender as ever, but Joaquin seemed to be making it very clear that she already carried his child.

  That little scene had effectively killed what scant appetite Lucinda possessed, but she’d made herself eat anyway. She needed to stay strong, stay focused. So far she hadn’t been given a single opportunity to escape, but surely that state of affairs couldn’t last forever. If nothing else, wouldn’t the neighbors be wondering what had happened to her, to her parents? True, Simón had never been what you could call social, especially with civilian neighbors on every side in this upscale neighborhood, but he had liked to go out and tend his roses, had been seen leaving the property in his big black Mercedes S-Class from time to time.

  Then again, if Joaquin had somehow managed to subjugate every member of the Santiago clan, then Lucinda guessed keeping a few nonmagical neighbors out of his business probably wouldn’t be all that difficult.

  It had been a shock to learn who Joaquin really was, that Matías was his son. In a way, it made sense; they were both the kind of monster who didn’t care that they were using their magical gifts for the very worst purposes. She could only be relieved that at least Matías was locked up for life in a maximum-security prison somewhere in Arizona, his talents forever stripped from him by Angela McAllister and Connor Wilcox. If Joaquin had come here to Southern California to save his son, he was too late. No power on earth could restore the gifts the prima and the primus had taken from Matías. Besides, Joaquin hadn’t left the house since he’d returned here, a blank-faced Marisol in tow. When he’d disappeared right after murdering Lucinda’s parents…was it only a week and a half ago?…she’d thought about running — only to find every door and window locked against her. The minor talent every witch possessed when it came to opening locked doors couldn’t help her. Clearly, Joaquin had laid a powerful spell on the house to keep her captive within.

  Why, she still didn’t know. Even though she wasn’t of much use — she possessed minor gifts when it came to predicting and controlling the weather, which was why her cousin Marisol had been the prima-in-waiting instead of Lucinda, as the prima’s daughter — she could still be seen as a symbol to rally around, the only surviving child of the murdered prima and her consort.

  Unfortunately, it didn’t seem as if any of her fellow Santiagos appeared to care. Lucinda wanted to hate them for being complicit in her captivity, but she knew in their own way, they were just as much prisoners as she was.

  Footsteps on the stairs. Although the house had been well-maintained, it was still now almost a hundred years old, since it had been built in the 1920s, back when silent film stars and East Coast tycoons constructed lavish mansions in Pasadena’s Linda Vista neighborhood. Because of the house’s age, the stairs creaked, which Lucinda now counted as a good thing. She’d hated those stairs when she was younger and wanted to sneak out to be with her friends, but at least now she always knew when someone was coming.

  The c
lock on her nightstand told her it was a little past three-thirty. She’d had lunch several hours ago, and it was far too early for Marisol to be delivering her dinner. Besides, the footsteps on the stairs sounded heavier than her cousin’s. Joaquin? It had to be, although Lucinda couldn’t think what he might want. He’d spoken very little to her after he’d taken command of this house, of the clan. She’d gotten the distinct impression that he thought interacting with her was a waste of his time.

  The footsteps paused just outside her door. Lucinda got up from the chair where she’d been sitting, not because she really knew what she intended to do, but because she refused to let Joaquin see how frightened she was of him. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t hurt her so far. She knew he could hurt her, could kill her, if he decided there was no real reason to keep her alive.

  And if she was going to meet her fate at the hands of this dark warlock, then she was going to do it standing on her own two feet, like the daughter of the Santiagos that she was.

  The knob turned. The door swung slowly inward. A man stepped into the room.

  Not Joaquin, although she knew this man’s face immediately. Younger, and handsome, with sharp-drawn features and piercing black eyes. Lucinda froze where she was, blood like ice in her veins.

  It couldn’t be….

  “Hello, Lucinda,” said Matías Escobar. “Miss me?”

  1

  Hayley McAllister turned the key she held over in her hand. Technically, she didn’t need it, because all witches and warlocks possessed the ability to open locked doors without the help of a key, but not using one when it was given was generally considered to be in bad taste, if not downright rude. Besides, Brandon had texted her to go ahead and get herself settled in, since he wouldn’t be home from work for a few more hours.

  Going inside seemed so…final, somehow. She still wasn’t sure she even needed to be here in Jerome, but her parents had been so unsettled by all the craziness of the past few weeks — the prima of the Santiagos murdered, some sort of psychopathic wizard from Central America taking over the Santiago clan — that they’d insisted she leave Payson, where a small branch of the McAllister family had lived for a hundred years, and come to the mountain town that was the main settlement of their witch clan.

  “You’ll be safe there,” Hayley’s mother had told her. “It’s much better than being here in Payson, where there might not be enough of us to protect you.”

  Hayley really didn’t think she needed to be protected. But her parents wouldn’t stop worrying that somehow the warlock who’d usurped the leadership of the Santiago clan might be able to sniff out her talent, might try to steal her away for his own nefarious purposes. So in the end she’d agreed, mostly because she couldn’t put up with the nagging any longer.

  Her brother Brandon was three years older than she, and had been living in Jerome for the past six months. His talent was for all things mechanical, and he worked in a custom car and motorcycle shop down in Cottonwood. The shop was owned by civilians, so they didn’t have a clue that the newest member of their team just happened to be a warlock. All they knew was that he could smooth out the world’s most crumpled fender, could bring his engine-whispering skills to bear on the most complicated transmission rebuild.

  And since the flat he’d been renting had two bedrooms, it seemed logical enough to have Hayley come stay with him. Of course, he’d confided to her that he hadn’t been home much lately because he and the guys at the shop were working on a car they hoped would get them on some cable TV show, but he figured she didn’t need to tell their parents that.

  “Anyway,” Brandon had added, “it’s not like I’d be of much use saving you from this big, bad warlock anyway. It’s more likely the other witches and warlocks in town would be handling that part of the deal.”

  Which, Hayley had to admit, was only the truth. Brandon’s skill was a super-handy one, but it wouldn’t exactly provide much in the way of magical defense.

  She pulled in a breath and inserted the key in the lock, then picked up her bags and walked into the flat. The air smelled slightly stale, and she wrinkled her nose. Brandon hadn’t been kidding about not spending much time here.

  Right next to the door and placed up against the wall was a battered-looking table with chipped milk-wash paint. It looked like it might be original to the flat, and Jerome’s former mining days. Hayley set the key down on the table, and put her bags on the floor under it before going to the window so she could pull up the blinds and open it, letting in a warm, fresh breeze.

  That was better. The day outside was bright and clear, and from the third-story apartment, she could see all the way down the hill, out to Sedona, and on to the purplish outlines of the San Francisco Peaks, more than fifty miles away in Flagstaff.

  Of course, she realized as she turned away from the window, all the extra light coming in also helped to illuminate what a mess the flat actually was. All right, Brandon had made a slight effort in the living room area, where the only thing really out of place was a pair of scuffed work boots lurking under the coffee table and a couple of controllers for the Xbox that sat on an entertainment center made of plain pine boards and some cement blocks, but the kitchen was a disaster — empty pizza boxes from someplace called Grapes sitting on the countertop, a pile of dishes cluttering the sink.

  “What, did you think you were getting a live-in maid with me staying here?” she grumbled.

  Problem was, she guessed that Brandon had been counting on exactly that. He might have a big heart and not a mean bone in his body, but he was also one of the world’s biggest slobs…just as he knew that his little sister tended to be something of a neat freak.

  Lips pressed together, she went into the kitchen and opened the cupboards under the sink, praying that her brother at least had some cleaning supplies on hand. Yes, she could always drive back down the hill into Cottonwood to buy what she needed, but since she’d just spent two hours getting here, she really didn’t feel like sliding back behind the wheel of her car.

  That had been her one small victory. She’d agreed to come here, but she’d insisted on driving herself, wouldn’t be brought here by her parents like some kid getting dropped off at summer camp. After all, she was almost twenty-three, more than old enough to handle a simple drive of a hundred miles or so. Her parents hadn’t been thrilled with that idea, but in the end they’d relented, mostly because they could tell she was willing to call off the whole plan if they wouldn’t budge on this one small detail. Besides, Hayley doubted the boogeyman from El Salvador or wherever it was really had the time to drop everything to try to grab her during that one window of opportunity.

  Actually, she doubted he was going to come after her at all, but she was tired of trying to argue that point with her parents. Her gift might be powerful, but so were the talents of a lot of other witches and warlocks, many of them in the de la Paz clan, making them much more accessible to someone in Southern California than a single witch holed up in the northern part of Arizona. All that mess with the woman whose ex-husband was killed had been down in the Phoenix area, not up here.

  At least Brandon had his act together enough to have liquid dish soap and cleanser and disinfecting wipes in the cabinet under the sink. Hayley got out the soap and a dish brush, and grimly started in on the mess her brother had left behind. Not exactly how she’d planned to spend her first day here in Jerome, but she knew she wouldn’t be able to relax until she had all this cleaned up. Also, truth be told, she’d rather wait until her brother got home before she ventured out into the town. That way, he could handle the introductions. The witches and warlocks here were her distant relatives, true, but she hadn’t visited Jerome since she was in junior high. The Payson McAllisters always kept themselves a little aloof; it had been something of a departure for Brandon to move here, although, given his talents, Payson didn’t have much to offer.

  Not much to offer her, either. Hayley knew her parents had been expecting her to settle down, but the thoug
ht of marrying a cousin — even a second or third cousin — didn’t much appeal, and the civilian population in Payson hadn’t presented any interesting prospects, either. She didn’t want to marry some guy who cared more about the lift kit on his truck or his gun rack than he did his wife. Better to be single than second fiddle.

  As to whether she’d meet anyone here in Jerome, well, she’d just have to see. She wouldn’t have admitted it to her parents, and definitely not to Brandon, but somewhere in the back of her mind she’d had the thought that this extended stay in Jerome might not be such a bad thing after all, if she ended up finding someone who caught her interest.

  He’d have to be pretty out of the ordinary, though. She’d had enough ordinary to last her a lifetime.

  Levi stood off to one side in the McAllister prima’s living room, trying his best to be unobtrusive as Angela and her husband Connor and the warlock named Robert Rowe did their best to comfort Danica Rowe, Connor’s cousin. She sat on the couch, a balled-up tissue in one hand, Robert’s arm around her.

  “How could this happen?” she demanded, managing to sound simultaneously furious and scared out of her mind. “You took his powers away! He was in a goddamn prison!”

  “I know,” Connor said. He stood next to Angela, clasping her hand. Levi had noticed that about them, how they often held hands, or briefly reached out to touch one another, as if to reaffirm the bond between them. It was an interesting thing to watch, this love between the prima and primus, so strong that Levi could almost see its energy shining between them, like a river of golden light.