"I heard you before you raced off like the stupidest, bravest woman I've ever met." He looked deep into her emerald eyes, searching for any sign that she regretted speaking them.
He found none, but still, he had to ask. Matings had to be accepted by both verbally.
“Did you mean them?”
"Well, yes, unless you're going to ask stupid questions for the rest of our lives—which we need to perform a ceremony to extend both our lives—are going to be a very long time." She smirked and wrapped her arms around his neck. "I don't know what happened this past week, but I know the man of stone and violence isn't the only person in there. There's a wonderful man in there, and I'm ready to get to know him if he thinks he can handle a witch."
Elijah knew the corner of his mouth tugged up into a smirk. “I’ve never been more ready to let sleeping dogs lie.”
He kissed her, in front of everyone, delaying what might be the second most important meeting of the Council of Supernaturals since its creation.
The End
* * *
Continue the Hexed in New Orleans Series with the first full length story in Once Hexed, Twice Shy.
https://www.lexiostrow.com/hexed-in-new-orleans.html
* * *
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About the Author
USA Today Bestselling Author Lexi Ostrow has been in love with the written word since second grade when her librarian started a writing club. Born in sunny southern California she's spent time in various places across the country and is so excited to be settled in New Orleans for as long as the Coast Guard will let them be there. Mom to a far too adorable newborn, and a menagerie of pets, she couldn't think of a better place to spin fantastical worlds.
Lexi has been a writer ever since the second grade in some form or another. Getting her degree in creative writing and her master's in journalism she couldn't wait to get a chance to put her fantasies down on paper. From paranormal romance to thriller there isn't a genre she doesn't love to spend her time reading or writing. With her BA in creative writing from UCR and her MA in multi-media Journalism from Emerson College, she's ready to take on the literary world one novel at a time.
Reading and writing are her first loves, but her passion for shopping, love for yummy food and her love for all her many pets are not far behind. Lexi is an enthusiast Whovian and DC Comic Show lover who isn't afraid to talk someone's ear off about them. She hopes to one day help other readers fall in love with writing as she did.
www.LexiOstrow.com
Heir of Stone
Bella Andrews
Heir of Stone ©2019 Bella Andrews
Copyright notice: All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.
Created with Vellum
Heir of Stone
Staying human will risk the lives of everyone she loves, but if she accepts immortality, can she save them all?
Riley Walsh is marked for death.
Pursued by a sinister hellhound and desperate to find a way to save her father’s life and escape the promise of her own death, Riley flees to Ireland to train with the last of the wielders of old magic. But here, everyone is keeping secrets. Dangerous secrets that risk her life and the lives of everyone she loves.
Soon, Riley learns that her magical heritage runs deeper than her Irish blood, deeper and older than all of Ireland. And that heritage is now waking the land, stirring old magic, old gods, and old enemies.
As Riley races to master the powers she never wanted to win a coming war, she faces losing herself to the all-consuming power of the Mórrígan. Old magic is the answer to all their problems. But wielding those powers comes with a price Riley’s not sure she can afford to pay.
1
Something wanted in.
Riley stared, mesmerized by the vibrating glass. Whatever wanted in was persistent.
Peck. Peck. Peck.
The tapping was too harsh to be rain, even though that too created a cacophony inside her head, like crashing waves that gave her a headache and the desire to rush home and hide under the covers. She wanted to forget the entire day, which started badly and hadn’t gotten any better.
Peck. Peck. Peck.
Riley shivered, cold from the shift in temperature the autumn rain brought. Rubbing her arms, she squinted at the jarring glass. The foggy windows and half-drawn shade made it impossible to see anything except vague shadows.
Peck. Peck. Peck.
No, that wasn’t rain. The harsh pelting had dwindled, and the storm had settled into hypnotic rain that pounded like a slow drumbeat against the window panes. The pecking, on the other hand, was different, louder, insistent.
Footsteps sounded behind her easel. Mr. Bailey was walking toward the pecking, reaching out, pulling the half-drawn shade, turning the handle—
“No!”
Maybe she’d only said the word in her head because Mr. Bailey undid the latch and tugged at the sticking panel. She watched, paralyzed, as a dark shape filled the window and beat against the glass.
Her heart was in her throat, pulsing loudly enough to drown her words. She held her arm out, palm up defensively.
A shriek sounded, and the black wings of a raven beat against the glass. Mr. Bailey jumped back and then forward again, securing the latch.
He laughed nervously, wiping his hands on his paint-stained slacks. Then he turned, met her gaze, and said something that sounded like “nevermore.”
Behind him, the bird thumped its wings against the glass once more and flew off into the rain.
Riley tried to swallow her heart back into her chest. Her neck hair was raised, spiky, alert, and at odds with her logical mind. It was just a bird. Nothing more.
Mr. Bailey had moved back to his desk, the bird forgotten, her reaction never even noted. She was glad she hadn’t been able to act on her fear. She already had enough problems fitting in.
Shake it off. It was nothing. She forced herself to find her center and breathe, imagining the white ball of light her father said was her personal power, moving up her spine and easing the tension. She relaxed into the meditation and focused her mind back on the painting she hadn’t even started.
What others called daydreaming, her father called active visualization. It might have been new-age-y, but it worked. She directed her mind to the canvas and let herself dream what could be.
“Are you okay, Ms. Walsh?”
She jumped at the distant voice, almost dropping her paintbrush. A hand gripped her shoulder, shaking her attention up to the concerned face looming over her.
“Fine, yeah. Sorry.” She blinked and tightened her grip on the paint brush. Had she really just zoned out that deeply?
Art class was normally a good place for a little meditating. She usually felt safe, even if her easel was less than ten feet away from Claire, the spoiled brat who had taken an instant dislike to her. Not that it mattered. The feeling was mutual. Riley wanted nothing more than to wipe the haughty look right off Claire’s vampire-pale face, which was fitting for someone who sucked the life out of everyone around her. But no one challenged Claire Banks. Except maybe Mr. Bailey, with his twinkling eyes and sarcastic view of life in general. He didn’t let Claire get a
way with much, another reason why he was Riley’s favorite teacher, and why she hated disappointing him.
But between the stupid bird and her meditation, she’d failed to get more than one brushstroke on her canvas. And he was looking at her, expecting something. “What’s this?”
“I’m sorry.” She followed his gaze to the canvas. “I just sort of--”
What the heck?
“Was in the zone?” Mr. Bailey supplied, standing back and rubbing his chin like he was assessing something at the Met. “I like it. Great details. The flames and the stone work. Kinda spooky. There’s fury in the brushstrokes. Great color choices, that blending down there by the edge. And that hint of a face in the wall is rather well done. Just shadowed enough to make you look twice.” He patted Riley’s back. “Good job. I hope you’ll use it in the show. Your best one yet.”
Riley couldn’t respond, because it wasn’t her work. It couldn’t be. Her heart threatened to bruise her chest. She wiped her shaking fingers on her jeans and touched the painting.
Wet.
Her paintbrush was clotted with the same paint on her fingers. How?
Her canvas had been blank less than— she glanced at the clock above Mr. Bailey’s desk— less than an hour ago. Even at her best, she wasn’t that fast. Or that good.
“I’m going to lock up. Stay as long as you like. Just close the door when you leave, okay?” He looked at her like he was worried she wasn’t listening.
She managed a nod.
Mr. Bailey lifted his leather case from his desk and checked the lock on his way out. She could hear him whistling softly as he made his way down the hall toward the exit.
She eyed the painting. It was good. Just like the scenes she’d been daydreaming about and sketching for weeks. Except darker somehow. The face in the stone wall gave her the horrible feeling of being paralyzed, like she had been earlier, unable to call out. It wasn’t a good feeling.
She looked away from the painting and found her friend Liz staring at her from the doorway.
“You coming or what? Mom’s dropping us off.” Liz checked her phone. “I thought you would be right behind me ten minutes ago. I’ve texted you a billion times. Did you forget?”
Crap. She had forgotten. “I have to clean up here first.”
Liz dropped her bag on an empty desk and came and stood beside her easel.
“You look weird. You know, more so than normal.” Liz’s grin was always contagious. Not today, though. Riley felt too weak to move her lips, much less smile. Liz seemed to notice, furrowing her brow and reaching out to squeeze Riley’s arm. “What is it? You ignored me all through class and didn’t meet me at your locker. You mad or something?”
“No ... It’s just—I think I’m coming down with something. Maybe you should go without me.” She hoped Liz would let her out of her promise to attend the hokey fall festival where the whole school and most of the community would be congregating around bad food and worse entertainment. She honestly didn’t feel like going. Whatever had happened today left her feeling more of an outsider than ever. She couldn’t explain any of it. She just needed to be alone, get her head right.
She pretended to be absorbed in cleaning her brush. “It will probably rain anyway.”
“Oh, no you don’t. You are going with me, rain or shine, and that’s final. You promised.”
“But… in the rain?”
“It’s not raining now.” Liz waved her arm toward the windows.
Riley followed Liz’s gesture. Weak, after-the-rain sunshine parted the clouds. Great.
“Fine. I’m coming.” Riley gave the painting one last look and dried her brush on her smock before draping the cloth over her canvas. “But no fried foods.”
Liz laughed. “Loosen up, Riley. They don’t serve kale smoothies and hummus. You’ll live. A little churro and Dr. Pepper never killed anyone.”
Riley grinned. “I can debate that with facts from the American Heart Association.”
“Oh, good grief.”
“I was kidding. I’ll have a churro. Hit the lights, will you?”
“Excellent. Yeah.” Liz hit the switch and slung her arm around Riley’s shoulders. “I’m so excited. You’re gonna love it. There’s all kinds of food, some rides that aren’t too bad, craft booths—oh, I got that gemstone bracelet you liked at the festival last year.”
“Right. Sounds good.”
“It is. You’ll see. After your first caramel apple, you’ll thank me. Oh, and get this, Jamie will be in the dunk tank.”
Riley bristled. Her ex was a sore spot.
Liz nodded like she understood. “Yep, I knew you’d want to know that. New plan. Churros, crafts, gypsy, dunk booth. Not necessarily in that order. I’m flexible. As long as we do them all. All of them, Riley. You are gonna have fun.”
“I don’t know. I really just want to forget Jamie.”
“Trust me, it’s cathartic to get some revenge on an ex. You and I both know he deserves it. You’ll thank me for that too.”
Riley smiled, the dark cloud lifting slightly. Maybe she did need to loosen up. It felt good to be having a normal conversation. “I’m not sure I want to be that much in your debt.”
Liz’s snort echoed in the near-empty hall. “That’s nothing. The real highlight of our night is the fortune teller.”
Riley groaned. “Ugh. I hate those.”
They reached the double doors at the end of the hall. Riley shoved her side a little harder than necessary, but it still opened slower than a southern drawl. Liz leaned her hip into the left double door, struggling with its weight.
“She’s the real thing. Bon-a-fide.” She pushed harder. “Swear on my life.”
The creak of the double doors ushered them into the humid aftermath of the storm. “Right. Real deal, gotcha.”
Liz stopped, grabbing Riley by her shoulders. “She is. Just trust me on this. I just know she’s going to tell us something important.”
Goosebumps ran up Riley’s arms and down her spine. Liz’s intensity was creepy. Riley started to shake herself loose, forcing Liz to drop her hold on her. With another smile, Liz opened the door to the minivan.
“I can’t wait for you to meet her. This is going to change. Your. Life.”
Riley glanced back at the art room windows. She had a feeling something already had.
2
The wind, heavy with the scent of carnival food, carried an eerie coldness that seemed to slip beneath Riley's skin and chill down to her bones.
This was supposed to be fun.
So why did she feel so unnerved?
Riley tugged her sleeves over her hands and glanced at the other outcasts waiting to have their pathetic fortunes told. Standing in the line was as good as having a sign on your back that read loser.
Liz cleared her throat. "Um, you gonna stare off into space all night?"
“Sorry.” Riley tried not to look at the purple tent and its neon palm buzzing in the waning daylight. “Just thinking about my art project."
"No! No more school stuff. The fall festival is for fun." Liz smiled. "I mean, here we are about to hear from the spirit world, you know?”
"Seriously? The only spirits she’s likely to make contact with are the ones she’s picked up at the Go Mart."
"Shh. If you don’t believe, you’ll block her channels."
"Her channels? Who told you that? Have you been calling psychics again?"
"Ri-ley!" When Liz was irked, Riley's name always had two drawn-out vowels, the last syllable often falling off into exasperation. This time it was followed by a weak fist to Riley's upper arm. “Be nice.”
“I am nice.”
“No, you’re—“
"Shh.” The wind practically slapped her face. She could taste grease through her nose, but there was something more. A charred scent she couldn’t pinpoint. She strained, listening for the noise that had raised her neck hair. A faint keening mingled with the wind. It sounded almost human.
“What wa
s that?”
Liz turned toward the woods. "Don't know. Could've been that coyote Nathan saw lurking around here last night. They come for the scraps, you know. I feel sorry for them. Poor things."
Unease crept along Riley’s spine, a throwback sixth sense she shared with her father. One that kept her alert and watching. She trained her gaze on the whispering ridge. The mournful sound rose. Deeper. Longer.
The wind stirred again, and a flock of black birds rocketed toward the parking lot, to the swaying power lines leading out to the highway. The birds called to one another, then settled, talon-to-talon on the thin wire.
Riley breathed deeply. She faced the wire, ignoring Liz's tug at her sleeve. Sound ceased. Whatever Liz was saying was lost to the deep silence. Even her own heartbeat seemed to still.
Not again.
A solitary raven left its place on the line and landed on top of the palm reader's tent, cocking its head toward her. The shrill caw from its black beak shattered the silence. Sound came rushing back, pounding into her head. Liz’s voice grated close to her ear.
"Hey, you listening?" She tugged at Riley's sweater again.
Riley turned. Her temples throbbed. "Sorry. What did you say?"
"You weren't listening, were you?" Liz sighed and gave her that long-suffering look that she'd perfected. "I said I'm going to ask the gypsy when I'll die. What are you going to ask?"
"Nothing. Not interested." A thought she couldn't quite piece together nagged at her brain. Something was wrong. She could feel it on her skin like an unfriendly gaze. Riley scanned the trees again and turned her attention to the short line behind them.
Three other people were waiting for their turn with the gypsy. Two were loud-kissing. One was the grandmotherly sort, the kind who looked like she might have butterscotch in her bulging purse. She held a deep-fried Twinkie on a stick and a soda large enough to swim in. Both were held out in front of her as barriers between the two who were in danger of suffocating from mouth to mouth.
Shadows and Sorcery: A Collection of Urban Fantasy and Paranormal Romance Novels Page 236
