Soulbound: A Lone Star Witch Novel

by Tessa Adams

  Would the knowledge of that girl in the forest simply reinforce his belief that I’m being set up? Or would it move me to the top of the suspect list?

  I wish life came with a user’s manual, a set of unbendable dos or don’ts. Maybe then, I’d know what to do. Part of me thinks I should tell Nate everything so that he has the best shot of catching whoever is doing this. But if I do that, it’s bound to open up a whole bunch of questions I’m not sure I want to answer. Questions I don’t think I can answer, at least not without breaking the confidentiality my coven—and the entire ACW—lives by.

  Another part worries that if he knows everything, any shot I have of staying free will completely dissolve. Friendship can only get me so far before he starts wondering if I’m playing him. And once that happens, I am completely screwed.

  And there’s a final part of me that is, quite simply, terrified for Nate. If he digs far enough and finds out that witches, wizards and warlocks really exist, what’s going to happen to him? There are a lot of people who would do anything necessary to keep that knowledge quiet and I don’t want Nate caught in their crosshairs. Nor do I want him caught in the crosshairs of a sociopathic warlock intent on committing murder.

  At the same time, what if knowing about the murder in Ipswitch helps Nate solve this murder? I’m in a Catch-22, and whatever way I turn I end up screwed.

  God, what a mess this is. Part of me wants to crawl into bed and pull the covers over my head until all this goes away. Not that I actually think I’ll be allowed to stay there for long—if Lily doesn’t drag me out, I have a feeling this strange compulsion will. Though the idea makes me sick, I really don’t think this is the end of it. Why would it be, when so far, whoever’s doing this has been untouchable?

  Dear goddess, I wish I had even a glimmer of an idea about what to do to fix things. I can only hope that Lily has found something in her research today that will help me figure out a little bit of what’s going on here; because I may not have a clue how to do it yet, but the one thing I do know is that I can’t sit by and watch more women die.

  I have to find a way to stop this.

  The line behind the cash register is getting longer again—probably because I’m standing here lost in my own little world—so I step over to take the next customer’s order while Travis makes change. As I do, I find myself face to face with Salima, my mother’s personal witch whisperer. Today, she’s dressed in a wild gypsy skirt in varying shades of purple and a matching peasant blouse that don’t suit her shape at all. In fact, she looks like a giant eggplant, especially considering the fact that her beehive is leaning a little to the side, just like an eggplant stem.

  “What are you doing here?” I demand, furious that she’s invaded my space. I do my best to keep my life in Austin separate from my life in Ipswitch, and while it doesn’t always work—last night being a perfect case in point—the last thing I want are the complications of home encroaching on the peace I’ve found at Beanz.

  Travis gawks at me—I don’t think he’s ever seen me be rude to anyone before—but Salima just smiles sweetly. “Ordering a bowl of French onion soup. I hear yours is the best in town.”

  “It’s not actually that good.”

  Travis steps on my foot even as he hip bumps me out of the way. “Don’t listen to her. She’s strangely crabby today. The soup is delicious, as are all of our desserts. Can I get you a cookie or brownie, on the house?”

  As she agrees, and wanders over to the display case to pick something out, I want to protest. To tell him that he has no right to be nice to her. Only the fact that there are other customers in line and they all appear to be listening keeps me silent. I can’t afford to look like I’ve gone around the bend—not when I’ve worked so hard to make Beanz a success.

  Still, when it’s time for me to get her drink—a large, gingerbread latte—I can’t help wishing for some hemlock. Or at least a little arsenic. At the moment, prison seems a small price to pay to be rid of Salima forever.

  Especially since, according to Nate, it looks like I might be headed there anyway.

  I thrust the drink into her hand and start to turn away, but she stops me with a hand on my arm. “Do you have a few minutes to talk? I have some really exciting news to share with you.”

  I can all but feel Travis brace himself to be abandoned behind the counter again. But this time I’m not going anywhere. “I’m sorry, Salima. As you can see, it’s lunchtime and we’re busy—”

  “That’s okay. I brought plenty of work to occupy me.” She pats the bright orange tote bag hanging over her arm, though I would swear it wasn’t there two minutes ago. “I’ll grab a table and whenever you have a few minutes, we can chat.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea—” I break off in midsentence because she’s already walking away, latte in one hand and cookie in the other.

  I try not to think about her while we serve the other customers, but I can’t help it. The rhythm Travis and I set earlier is broken and I keep making amateur mistakes. Damn it. Isn’t it enough that my mom tries to take over every second I spend at home? Does she really have to send her craziness into Austin after me, as well?

  “Go talk to her,” Travis tells me after I hand a third customer the wrong cup of coffee. “Otherwise we’re going to have a riot on our hands.”

  “I don’t want to.” I’m a little shocked by the whine in my voice and I can tell from the way his eyes widen that Travis is too.

  “Are you kidding me? You took on Nate and that other guy without blinking an eye, but one little old lady sends you running for the hills?”

  “Trust me, she’s the scariest of the three.”

  He just looks at me.

  “I’m serious. She is.”

  “Somehow I doubt that.”

  “Only because you don’t know her like I do.” Still, Travis is right. I can’t put the confrontation off forever, especially since all I’m doing behind the counter right now is making his job harder. With a sigh, I take my apron off—again—and loop it over the open door that leads into the kitchen.

  “I’ve got five minutes,” I tell Salima, whose face lights up the second she sees me walking toward her.

  “Only five? I was hoping for—”

  “Take it or leave it.” It’s my turn to cut her off. And how childish is it that I’m hoping, really hoping, that she’ll leave it?

  “Then I’ll take it.” She reaches into her tote bag and pulls out a ridiculous pink and lime green polka-dotted binder. “I’ve made you something.”

  Aren’t I lucky? The words tremble on my tongue, but I don’t actually say them. So far, Salima has been nothing but nice to me and I can’t bring myself to be any more obnoxious to her. After all, she’s just trying to do her job. It’s not her fault my mother hired her to do the impossible.

  In the end, I settle for, “You really didn’t have to do that.”

  “Of course I did. We’re going to get this latency problem of yours taken care of in no time flat.”

  “What if I don’t want my latency taken care of?”

  “Oh, sugar, you’re only saying that because you’re afraid to hope. But don’t worry. I promise, we’re going to be successful. I have just the thing to break through whatever barriers are keeping your magic in check.”

  I think about telling her that I like my barriers—particularly after what happened last night—but the words would fall on deaf ears. She might be a softer, rounder, more fashion-challenged version of my mother, but they are definitely two peas in a pod.

  “Look, I’m sorry, but I have to get back to work.”

  “Our five minutes aren’t up yet! Give me two minutes—I can be quick.” She slides the binder across the table to me. “I’ve spent the last four days making a workout plan for you. It’s very specific and has to be followed exactly, but I promise, it will yield great results.”

  Workout plan? Is she insane? I step back from the table. “I already have a gym membership, thanks.”


  She giggles, which sounds odd coming from a woman who is so obviously ancient. “It’s not that kind of workout. It’s to get your magic in shape.”

  “I don’t have any magic.”

  She pats the hideous, polka-dotted binder. “Follow the exercises I outline for you and you will. I guarantee it.”

  I start to argue some more, but then decide, what the hell. If it will get her out of my hair I’ll take the stupid plan and promise to do the exercises. She’ll never know the difference.

  “All right,” I tell her. “I’ll try it.”

  “Wonderful!” She claps her be-ringed hands, then reaches back into her tote bag and pulls out the cowboy boots my mother had tried to give me for the Solstice. “Your mom wanted me to bring these to you,” she tells me. “She said you’d forgotten them when you packed all your other presents from the Solstice. Now, you have to make sure you wear them when you do the exercises I laid out. They’re specially made and charmed and will make everything so much easier for you.”

  I stare at the boots that have become the bane of my existence—and the symbol of the battle between my mother and me. I want to tell Salima to take them back to Ipswitch and suggest my mother shove them somewhere very uncomfortable, but years of royal training keep me silent. Mom and I may be at war, but in public it’s all about presenting a united front. Besides, our ongoing fight over cowboy boots has nothing to do with Salima. She probably thought she was doing me a favor bringing them here.

  I force a smile I am far from feeling. “Great. Thanks.”

  “No problem. I figured you’d be missing them.” She reaches back into her bag and pulls out a tall glass container. I stare from it to her purse, wondering how the hell she managed to fit all of this in the bag. Part of me wants to stick around, just to see what else she has in there.

  “I almost forgot the best part. These are some herbs, picked and charmed by me. Mix two spoonfuls into a glass of lukewarm water and drink it about an hour before you begin the exercises. You’ll be astonished at how much it opens you up. You’ll see things in a whole new light.”

  Yeah, only if the herbs are really just a blend of magic ’shrooms…which, now that I think about it, I wouldn’t put past either Salima or my mother if they thought it might help. I reach for the jar gingerly.

  “You can open it up,” Salima tells me. “Get a feel for the herbs. Maybe even take a spoon now if you’d like.”

  “That’s a great idea, but I still have to work for a while. I’d hate for my magic to burst out while I’m making someone’s coffee.”

  She nods wisely. “That’s a very good point. And such a good attitude. Optimism really helps with problems like yours.”

  The bell on the door jangles and I look up warily. At this point, I wouldn’t be surprised if the entire ACW decided to pay Beanz a visit this afternoon. Goddess knows, everyone else has.

  Instead, it’s just a large group of high schoolers. I nearly weep in relief. Gathering up all of Salima’s gifts, I comment, “Well, that’s my cue to get back to work. Thanks for everything, Salima.”

  “Oh, no problem, sugar. No problem at all.” She reaches into her bag one last time and pulls out two books, which she hands to me. At this point, it’s all I can do not to roll my eyes. I mean, seriously. Does she have an entire store in there? “The first book is some common spells used in Heka. I didn’t know if you had your own spell book so I brought it along. The second one has some special spells and incantations that I put together to help get you in the mood to practice magic. Say a few every day before you start your workout—”

  “Before or after the herbs?” I deadpan, tongue firmly in cheek.

  She doesn’t seem to notice. Instead, she stands and this time pats my cheek instead of one of her inanimate objects. “It doesn’t matter, sugar. Whatever feels best to you. And remember, while you go through the workout, to conjure up a picture of your mark and hold it in your mind’s eye the whole time. Magic is a very personal thing and the more you have on or around you that is unique to you, the more successful you’ll be.”

  My magic, or lack thereof, doesn’t exactly feel personal right now, but I’m not going to go there. Not while I’m still holding out hope to get her out of my coffeehouse sometime today.

  “Good luck,” she tells me as she gathers the papers she’s been working on. “I’ll stop by in a few days, just to check on you. See how you’re doing.”

  “Oh, right. Of course. I can hardly wait.”

  She comes around the table and pulls me into a hug—which feels a little ridiculous to me since I tower over her by about a foot. Still, submitting to her patchouli-scented embrace is easier than fighting it.

  Finally she lets go. “I don’t know what your mother was so worried about. You are just delightful.”

  “That’s what I keep telling her.” She starts out, but I don’t turn away until I’ve made sure that she is actually on the sidewalk, walking away from Beanz as fast as her Technicolored cowboy boots can take her. Then I head back to the counter—and Travis, who is currently surrounded by flirty, giggling high school girls who haven’t quite figured out yet that they’re barking up the wrong tree.

  As I round the corner, I toss Salima’s gifts—binder, boots, books and most especially herbs—into the closest trash can. Salima might be nice, but that doesn’t mean I trust her, or my mother, any farther than I can throw them. Magical workout be damned. I’ll stick with the gym.

  * * *

  Travis finally gets to go home, after asking a number of pointed questions about what’s going on with me. I fill him in on the basics—only because I figure he has the right to know after the way he’s come through for me today—and he turns unexpectedly serious, asks if there’s anything he can do to help.

  I tell him I have things under control, but when I make my way out of the café at four o’clock, I find him leaning negligently against the building in the back.

  “What are you doing here?” I demand. “I thought you had a hot date for this afternoon?”

  “I postponed it a couple of hours.” He follows me to my car, climbs in the passenger seat before I can even get my door open.

  “What are you doing?” I repeat, incredulously.

  “Making sure you get home safely.”

  My heart melts just a little over the fact that this twenty-year-old kid cares enough to look after me like this. But still, it’s unnecessary. “I’m fine, Travis. I don’t think anyone is going to hurt me between here and my house.”

  The look he gives me is filled with annoyance. “Yeah, and you thought your little walk by the lake last night wouldn’t be a problem either.” He shakes his head at my stupidity. “I’m not asking you to bear my children, Xandra. Just to let me ride home with you.”

  I don’t argue with him after that, though I do offer to drop him at his apartment—he lives a couple of miles closer to UT—but he ignores me. Instead, he waits for me to park, then walks me to my front door.

  Once I have it unlocked and open, I tell him, “I think I’ve got it from here.”

  He just nods, wraps an arm around my shoulder and pulls me in for a very un-Travis-like hug. “Be careful, okay?” he whispers. “An awful lot of trouble came looking for you today and I kind of like you in one piece.”

  He calls that trouble? I wonder what he’d say if he ever saw Declan? Probably tell me to run for the hills while he distracts him—with his body, if possible.

  “Thanks, Travis.” I hug him back and he pulls awkwardly away. For all of his sassiness and teasing, Travis isn’t big on displays of affection, public or otherwise.

  The last thing I see before I close the front door is Travis walking down the block, his skinny shoulders hunched against the wind.

  Though I think I put on a pretty good face at the coffeehouse, I’m dragging. Exhaustion hit about two hours ago and just getting down the hall to my room seems to take more effort than I’ve got right now. I tell myself what I really want is a s
hower and twelve uninterrupted hours of sleep, but the truth is I’m terrified of going to bed. Terrified of the nightmares I’ll have when I close my eyes and terrified of what will happen to my life in those hours of downtime.

  I think back over what Nate said, about how he believes Declan is responsible for Lina’s murder. I tried to tell him that wasn’t the case, but I know he didn’t believe me. I know he’s the homicide detective and that he’s supposed to know best, but I just don’t buy it. Yes, I know that in ninety percent of cases when a woman turns up dead it’s the boyfriend or husband, but that means in ten percent of cases it isn’t the boyfriend—I studiously avoid feeling anything when I think about Declan sleeping with Lina, now or before. It’s not my business after all. Especially since I have a hard time imagining a warlock as powerful as Declan resorting to killing in such an ugly manner.

  Do I think Declan is capable of murder? Under the right circumstances, absolutely. He isn’t a dark warlock for nothing.

  Do I think he would do murder like that? No. I really don’t. Especially not someone he cares about. And especially not when I consider the malicious feelings that emanated from the body, the sadistic pleasure that turned my stomach even more than feeling what the killer had done to Lina. To put it simply, that evil didn’t feel like the man who had kissed and comforted me so tenderly all those years ago.

  Could I be wrong? Maybe.

  Do I think I’m wrong? No, I really don’t.

  Which means Nate is partially right. The killer might be doing all this in order to set someone else up, though I personally think he takes too much pleasure in the deaths for it to be just that. Nate thinks the person being set up is me, but I can’t help wondering if it’s Declan instead. The thought makes me sick. Especially since I’m somehow involved. I’ve spent years dreaming of telling Declan off for what happened in the forest that night, but the idea that I’m being used to hurt him is more awful than I can stand.