by Tessa Adams
He’s tall, with broad shoulders, a narrow waist and long, powerful legs. I strain to see more of him, to figure out who he is though I am certain I’ve never met him before. I would remember the aura of raw power that surrounds him—it’s not something anyone could easily forget.
With that realization, suspicion whispers through me—an idea so outlandish I can’t begin to credit it. But then he takes a few more steps and I get my first good look at his face. Razor-sharp cheekbones where they peek through his dark, chin-length hair. Full lips curled into a sardonic smile. Midnight eyes rimmed with impossibly long lashes. And a face so beautiful, so distinctive, that it’s impossible to forget.
I don’t know who he is and while there’s a small part of me that wants to swoon at his feet, the majority of my brain is screaming for me to run. To get as far away from him as fast as I possibly can.
I choose not to listen.
Instead, I start to ask his name, but he’s even closer now. So close that I can see his mark. It’s a stark black tattoo in the shape of Seba, the Ancient Egyptian star, and like mine, it has been magically cast into the left side of his neck. It’s an unusual place for a mark and seeing it has me stumbling, though I haven’t moved an inch. I catch myself, force my knees to hold my weight when they want nothing more than to buckle.
Two thoughts hit me at once.
First, that I was right about the power. The man who is even now slowly, inexorably, crossing the last few feet between us, is a warlock of almost unimaginable skill. One who straddles the line between light and dark, white magic and black. One who even my very powerful parents speak about only in whispers, despite the fact that his brother has been dating my sister for years now. Though Ryder celebrates most holidays with us, Declan has never before been invited to our house. I’m not sure he was even invited this time. After all, my mother is adamant that we don’t associate with his kind of power.
And secondly, that he’s even better looking than the stories proclaim. And that’s saying something.
He stops only a foot or so from me and though I want to look away, I force myself to meet the burning gaze of Declan Chumomisto, the man many consider the most powerful warlock living today. Some people say that he’s losing it, that he’s not nearly as formidable as he once was, but the rumbles only feed the rumors about him. Especially when he can still do things that most witches can only dream of. Standing here, across from him, I see no hint that he’s lost any of that power. The air around us all but throbs with it.
Which, unfortunately, makes holding my ground even harder than I expected. Being near him is intense, overwhelming. So electric that I can feel every cell in my body vibrating with the strength of it. It’s also scary as hell.
“What are you doing here?” I whisper, when what I really want to ask is why me?
Why am I reacting like this to you?
What did I do to attract your attention?
And why did you come out here to talk to me when there are so many more interesting people back at the house?
But reading minds must not be one of his gifts, because his smirk grows more pronounced as he answers my original question. “The same thing everybody else is, I would imagine. I came for Xandra Morgan’s Kas Djedet.”
Of course he had. My cheeks burn with shame and I want nothing more than to duck my head and run away yet again. From him, from home, from the whole nightmare of my nineteenth birthday. Still, I might have fled earlier, but I wasn’t raised to be weak. Tilting my chin, I ask, “Did you enjoy the show?”
He laughs as predicted, but there’s no mockery in the sound—which is totally not what I expected. “Your family will get over it.”
“You know my family?” This is news to me.
“Not really. But isn’t that what people are supposed to say at times like this? When royalty screws up, royally?”
Now I’m the one who’s laughing. At least he’s honest. “Yeah, I guess they are.”
He glances down at my muddy feet. “You want to sit?”
Do I? With him? I don’t know. His laugh has calmed my earlier terror, but my heart is still practically beating out of my chest. Declan Chumomisto is talking to me.
He extends a hand to help me settle, but I don’t take it. I don’t move at all for long seconds, just stand there watching him. He’s a grown man, powerful beyond my comprehension, and I’m a nineteen-year-old screwup. We don’t exactly have a lot in common, even if it’s only midnight conversation that he’s after.
“Is something wrong?” he finally asks, letting his hand fall back to his side. There’s no impatience in the question, no condescension. Just an honest concern that has me forgetting the whispers about him. Or at least putting them aside for a while. Despite my best intentions, I lower my guard.
“You mean besides the fact that I just humiliated myself in front of my entire coven?” I answer, settling down beside him as he takes off his socks and shoes.
“And what looks like a fair amount of outsiders as well, don’t forget.”
“Gee, thanks. I was totally in danger of forgetting that, so I appreciate the reminder.”
“I do what I can.”
“And not a thing more, I bet.” I narrow my eyes at him. “You need lessons on how to pretend to give a damn.”
“Oh, I give a damn, Xandra. I just didn’t think you’d want me to lie to you. I can try, but I warn you, I’m not very good at it.”
“Someone like you doesn’t have to be.” I, on the other hand, have spent my whole life living a lie. Trying to be who my parents want me to be no matter how hopeless I am at it.
“Someone like me?” There’s a dangerous note in his voice now, but I don’t care. I’m feeling reckless.
“I’m not stupid. I know who you are. Someone like you doesn’t have to answer to anyone.”
This time it’s his eyes that narrow. “You’d be surprised.”
To the side of us a peach tree bursts into flame. For a moment, Declan looks stunned, like he can’t imagine how it happened. I wonder what that would be like, to have so much power that it could just leak out like that without me even noticing. I don’t think I’d like it—I’m too much of a control freak.
A second later, the fire goes out as suddenly as it started. He doesn’t say anything else and neither do I. Instead, we just sit here, the tension between us ratcheting up with each minute that passes.
“So, why did you come?” I finally ask. “You don’t know my family, don’t know me. You aren’t even part of our coven. So why did you travel halfway around the world—”
“Halfway across the country, not the world. I was in New York before this.”
“Whatever.” I couldn’t care less about semantics when there are questions I want answers to. “So why, out of all the places you could be right now, did you choose to be here?”
“Because you’re here.”
My gaze jumps to his. I’ve been careful not to look him in the eye since those first moments, scared of what I might find. Now, I know that fear is justified. Power—overwhelming, unimaginable power—swirls in the obsidian depths and I can’t look away. I’m pinned, as trapped here as I was back there on that stage. More so, really, because here it feels like there’s no escape route. No back door to scuttle out of. Nowhere to run.
I desperately want to look away. But the pull is intense, like he’s reached out and grabbed me and there’s nothing I can do about it.
I’m playing prey to his predator.
Even worse, there’s a strange lethargy pulsing through me. Pulling me into him. Pulling me under. I start to fall…
No! I don’t know what game he’s playing, but I won’t be anyone’s pawn. Not anymore. When I jumped off that stage tonight and ran away, I started a new path for myself. A new life. Instinctively, I know that this isn’t it.
I finally find the strength to wrench my gaze from his and as I do, I feel this pop, like I’ve ruptured something deep inside. I gasp, wrap my arms around myse
lf in an instinctive bid for comfort. Declan doesn’t react at all, doesn’t move a muscle, but I think he felt it too.
When silver sparks of energy whip through the air around us, I’m sure of it.
Reaching a hand out, I capture one of the sparks. I can’t stop myself. I want to know, for just a second, what that kind of power feels like. It sizzles against my skin, crackling and spitting, burning me, until I open my fingers and let what’s left of the spark fall back out into the air.
My palm throbs where it touched me, white hot and painful. It takes all my energy not to flinch, but I manage it. It’s my turn not to react. Except, Declan knows—just as I did with him. He reaches out, gently cups my hand in his own. Strokes the fingers of his other hand lightly over the burn.
It should have been smooth, easy, but the second his skin brushes against my palm, the entire world ignites. Fragments of memories I shouldn’t have rush at me—terrifying, fascinating, compelling. I close my eyes, try to block them out, but they’re still there behind my eyelids. Still there, deep in my mind as every nerve ending I have lights up like it’s Christmas at Rockefeller Center.
I order myself to pull away, to break the connection this one last time, but I can’t do it. The pleasure, woven as it is amidst the pain, staggers me and I can’t do anything but sit there and soak it all in.
The pain dissipates as suddenly as it came, but in its place…in its place is a silver Seba, identical in all but color to the one on Declan’s neck.
“What did you do?” I gasp, looking at the new mark on my palm. It shimmers in the moonlight, is the most beautiful—and frightening—thing I’ve ever seen.
“That wasn’t me, Xandra.” But he looks shaken as his fingers close around mine in a grip so possessive it makes my breath catch in my throat. I start to pull back—this is too weird, even for the daughter of witch royalty—but then I realize his hand is shaking even worse than mine. It’s enough, that hint of vulnerability, to keep me here when every instinct I have screams at me to flee.
“What—” My voice breaks and I clear my throat, try again. “What’s happening?” The sparks aren’t stopping. In fact, they’re spinning all around us like a freak midsummer snow flurry—growing hotter, more plentiful, the longer we’re touching.
Declan doesn’t answer, just shakes his head. I get the impression, right or wrong, that for all his power and experience he doesn’t know what’s going on any more than I do. I take a step back and electricity arcs between us, flowing from him into me and back again.
Every cell in my body is vibrating with it, every nerve ending screaming with the agony of it. Just when I think it’s over, that the electricity is going to rip us apart, he does something even more unexpected. He leans forward, and slowly lowers his mouth to mine.
Rockefeller Center turns into Mardi Gras, the Fourth of July and New Year’s Eve all rolled into one. Too bad I never thought to wonder what happens after the ball drops.
Two
Winter 2013
I shouldn’t have drunk the damn tea.
I’d known it even as I took the first sip, but when I’d asked my mother what was in it, she’d sworn it was completely innocuous. Chamomile. Mint. A touch of lavender for luck.
Yeah, right.
But when I’d scented all three herbs in the cup she’d handed me, I’d decided to give her the benefit of the doubt. And while there’d been something else in there—something a little sweet that I couldn’t quite identify at the time—I’d just put it down to the agave syrup my mom’s been crazy about for months now.
I’m not a fan of the stuff but my mother looked so anxious, and so happy to see me after my six-month absence from Ipswitch, that I hadn’t been able to disappoint her. I’d drunk the entire stupid cup in one long gulp to make up for the unpleasant taste.
I’m paying for it now, big time, which makes me an even bigger fool today than I was eight years ago. Back then, I’d still been trying desperately to live up to her expectations of me, to be the witch she wanted me to be. In the last few years, though, I’ve given up on trying to be something I’m not and have instead built a life for myself that I’m proud of—away from my hometown.
Away from the magic that is so much a part of this place.
Which, I suppose, makes my momentary gullibility more understandable. It’s been a while since I’ve been around the insanity and I’ve obviously forgotten how bad it can get. It was a mistake to think that I would be safe here, even for a couple of days.
After all, from the moment I walked away from Ipswitch and the magical legacy I had no hopes of living up to, my mother has been desperate to get me back. She’ll stop at nothing to find a way to unlock the powers I’m perfectly content without, will do anything to turn me into the Magic Barbie she’s always wanted me to be. Maybe if I’d remembered that, instead of thinking about how much I’d missed her, I’d be in better shape now.
Live and learn, I suppose. And just to be clear, I’d really like the chance to live through this. I send the thought out into the universe even as I wonder if the number for Poison Control is the same as it was when I was a little kid.
I reach for the phone, but it falls to the ground before I can wrap my hand around it—whether by accident or design, I’m not sure. The fact that it’s perfectly believable that my mother would have charmed the phone to prevent me from calling for help is one more glaring piece of evidence against both of us.
Idiot, idiot, idiot…The word thrums through my brain, a triple-syllable repeating chorus that echoes the three-step cramping in my stomach.
Squeeze, tighten, release.
Squeeze, tighten, release.
I-Di-Ot.
I didn’t know anything could hurt this much. Had my mother inadvertently given me too much of whatever this is, or had I simply poisoned myself by drinking the tea too quickly? I call out for help, then curl myself into a ball and pray for death. Maybe living isn’t all it’s cracked up to be after all—at least not if it comes with this.
“Hey, Xandra, what’s wrong?” Rachael asks from her spot near the door. Though she normally doesn’t have much use for me, her most prominent power is healing. My illness must have called to her, overcoming her usual lack of interest.
“Tea,” is all I manage to say, but it’s enough. She rushes into the room and lays a cool hand on my forehead.
“Mom’s crazy,” she tells me. “I swear, your latency has pushed her completely around the bend.”
“What did she give me?”
She looks at my pupils, shakes her head. “Best guess?” she asks grimly. “Belladonna.”
I shudder at the confirmation of my worst fear. Guaranteed to bring out even the most latent magic—or so the herbal practitioners promise—belladonna has been a staple in witch gardens for centuries. I know my mom grows it, but I thought she burned it to get to its essence. Never in a million years did it occur to me that she would actually go so far as to feed me the toxic plant. Especially since, so far, the only thing it’s brought out in me is my breakfast—an experience I really could have done without.
“What do I do?” I ask between cramps, forcing the words out from between my clenched jaws.
“I’m not sure. I need to look it up, and talk to her, find out how much she gave you. Probably no more than a berry or two, which isn’t enough to kill you when brewed in a tea—it’ll just make you really uncomfortable.”
Another pain hits and I pull my legs even tighter against my stomach. “I think…uncomfortable…is an understatement,” I gasp.
“I know, sweetie.” She heads into my bathroom and comes out a few seconds later with a damp washcloth, which she lays across my forehead. “I’ll be back in a little while, hopefully with an antidote to make this all go away.”
“Pilocarpine,” I tell her, because while I’m no good with actually wielding magic, I’m still up on all the plants and other ingredients that witches deal with—a leftover from when I was trying to be super-witch.
Terrific. I grit my teeth against another influx of pain and swear to myself that I am never coming back here again. I don’t care about command performances anymore, don’t care how much my mother pleads with me to return for special occasions. She’s crossed so far over the line this time that there is no way I’ll be able to overlook it. Winter Solstice or not, I am out of here the second I feel better.
If I ever do feel better, which seems doubtful right now. The pain is increasing as the belladonna works its way through my system, and I try not to think about what’s coming next. Blurred vision, dizziness, hallucinations, convulsions. Already, I can see the edges of the walls bending, curving in on me. I tell myself it isn’t real, that it’s just another side effect of the belladonna, but the truth is I don’t know what’s real anymore and what’s illusion.
It turns out my mother has indeed gotten rid of the pilocarpine and the potion my sister makes up to ease my pain barely touches the other symptoms. The next few hours pass in a blur as hallucination after hallucination works its way into my brain. Sometimes it’s like the wall, when I can tell myself that it isn’t really happening, but other times my imaginings feel so real that I can’t help but get swept up in them.
Sweating, aching, trying desperately not to get sick again, I roll over and suddenly he’s here, right in front of me. Declan. Like the last eight years have never taken place. Like he hadn’t shown up, rocked my world and then abandoned me when I was at my most frightened and vulnerable.
Words of hate and fury burn inside of me, and I start to tell him what a bastard he is. But when I reach out to touch him he disappears, only to reappear next to the doorway. “Come with me,” he whispers and somehow I feel his warm breath against my ear, though he is all the way across the room.
