by Tessa Adams
My stomach revolts and for a second I fear that I’m going to be sick, all over the eggplant and zucchini pizza our waiter has just placed in front of us. “Don’t follow me,” I tell her as I grab my purse and drop forty dollars on the table.
“Xandra, wait!”
She reaches for me, but I elude her, bolting for the door at a dead run. I don’t know where I’m going, don’t know what I hope to find. I know only that I want away from Lily with her sad eyes and copious knowledge.
But no matter how fast I run, I can’t get away. The truth of what Lily told me has taken up residence deep inside of me and already I feel it twisting me up into something—someone—unrecognizable.
I dash like a crazy woman through the streets of downtown Austin.
Flee like a wild animal whose only thought is escape.
Run until I can’t run anymore.
I stop when my legs are rubber and my lungs feel like they’re going to explode. The stitch in my side is so bad that it feels like it’s taken over my entire body, so I brace my hands on my thighs and concentrate on dragging deep breaths into my lungs.
But as my breath returns, so does my capacity for thought. And fear. And pain.
Whipping out my cell phone, I fire off a quick text to Lily telling her I’m fine, even though I’m not, and thanking her for not following me. Then I dial Declan’s number, which he programmed into my phone last night while I was in the shower.
The phone rings only once before he snatches it up. “Xandra. Are you all right?”
“Why didn’t you just kill me when you had the chance?” I demand. My breath is still coming in fits and spurts, but by now I think it’s more from emotion than exertion.
He’s silent for the beat of one second, two. Then, “Where are you?”
“Does it matter?”
“Of course it matters,” he snaps out. “I’m coming for you.”
“I don’t know where I am.” It’s the truth. I haven’t even tried to get my bearings yet.
“Stay where you are. I’ll find you.”
“Why? Why does it matter if you find me? Won’t that just make things worse?”
“Who told you?” His voice is strained, his breathing quicker than usual and I realize that now he’s running too. Only he’s not trying to escape. He’s trying to rescue me.
Only I’m not ready to be rescued, and I’m certainly not ready to see him. “Good-bye, Declan.” I hang up the phone, prepare to take off all over again. But then I look around, try to figure out where I am. That’s when I realize I’m back where so much of this nightmare I’m currently caught in started—on the slope leading down to Town Lake.
The yellow crime scene tape still cuts a wide swath across the trail leading down to the lake and I feel myself drawn to it. Drawn to the spot where I found her. Lina. It’s not the same as the compulsion. I can fight the pull if I want to, but I don’t. I want to see if—I don’t know what I want to see. I just know that I do.
I cross the grass, stumble down the rocky slope to the trail that leads around the lake. My new cowboy boots are slick, but at least they’re not five-inch Jimmy Choos, and I make it to the tape without any major catastrophes.
At first, I just stand here, looking out over the water. It’s a gloomy day, overcast, with just a touch of wetness in the air from the rain that’s been that threatening all day to fall. It’s a perfect day for death, if there is such a thing, and I feel it calling to me. Again, not a compulsion so much as a whisper directing me down, down, down to the water.
I glance around, make sure I’m alone, then duck under the tape. I don’t know what I’m looking for, what I’m supposed to find down here, but there has to be something. Otherwise why would sparks of power be bouncing around inside me like Pop Rocks?
I creep forward slowly to the spot where I found Lina’s body. Instinct has me crouching down, peering into the cloudy water. Part of me expects to still see her there, staring up at me with sightless eyes. But there’s nothing there, not even my own reflection. The day is too dark for that, the water too murky.
Seeking something—a connection, maybe—I brush my fingertips through the freezing water. And that’s when I feel it, an ominous gloom spreading through the water straight at me. I immediately pull my fingers out of the water and dry them on my jeans. The last thing I want is to feel what I felt the last time I was down here.
But it’s too late. The whispers are louder now, the sparks brighter, and I know I can’t walk away until I’ve listened to what they want to tell me. It takes every ounce of courage I have—and a little extra, to boot, but I thrust my hand back into the water.
It takes only a few seconds before my bones begin to ache from the cold and soon after my fingers start to cramp. I feel the pain, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing does but figuring this out.
The sinister feeling is back, and it’s heavier now, more oppressive. It crushes down on my back and shoulders, circles around and presses against my chest until I’m struggling to draw a breath. And then it’s like it starts to sprout fingers, fingers that curl around my throat and squeeze against my windpipe.
I start to panic even as I tell myself that what I’m feeling isn’t real, isn’t really happening. There’s a flash of black in front of my eyes, and I glance around wildly—though I have no idea whether I’m looking for friend or foe. There’s no one there, and that’s when I realize what I’m seeing is him. Or at least, echoes of him.
I close my eyes, try to see what I can. What I’m supposed to. There’s a thin arm, covered in a chunky black sweater. A slender hand encased in an elegant black glove. A wicked looking athame—ceremonial dagger—clutched in long, leather-encased fingers. I concentrate on the dagger, stretch my powers and my mind as far as both can go as I try to distinguish what it looks like.
In the Heka community, athames are very personal things—and very unique ones. Witches of power have their daggers specially made for them by artisans with incredible talent and power themselves, out of enchanted materials chosen specifically for the buyer. Athames created by the top makers aren’t tools so much as actual extensions of a witch’s power.
While young witches, and lesser witches, make do with less expensive daggers, the rule of thumb has always been to put as much money into one as you possibly can. Something tells me that this bastard’s athame will be one of a kind, made of the finest materials available. If I can see it—really see it—it will be the first real clue to his identity that we have.
I concentrate harder, push a little further, and there it is. The blade is long and wicked looking, engraved with some of the darkest symbols Heka has—symbols that none but the darkest warlocks and witches dare make. It’s smooth on one edge and curved and pointed on the other, designed—I know—to cause the most damage possible. My own body aches at just the thought of that blade being thrust inside of someone, then twisted so the wound can’t close itself up. After all, that’s what the jagged edges are for. They certainly don’t help with cutting plants.
I move on to the hilt, try to see past the nightmare-inspiring blade. The hilt is silver and ornate, a lot of separate swirls diving in and out of each other to form an elaborate dragon. There’s a jewel embedded in his eye, but I can’t quite see its color. Not yet.
Either way, the dagger is definitely expensive. Definitely one of a kind. There aren’t that many athame makers in North America who could create something like this. Surely, if one of them made this, they would remember for whom.
I strain to take a mental picture—maybe Declan will recognize it. But the more I concentrate, the harder it becomes to breathe, even as I get a clearer picture of the athame. The very air around me feels threatening now and my instincts—the same instincts that had me dipping my fingers in the lake to begin with—are now screaming for me to stand, to run, to get away.
Not yet, I tell myself. Just a couple more seconds to see the eye so I can identify what jewel is embedded in its decorative hilt. I’ve almost
got it, almost—
My magic goes crazy, nearly blasts me apart. I yank my hand out of the water in self-defense, stumble to my feet. And that’s when I see him—Ryder Chumomisto standing right beside me, his dark eyes more serious than I have ever seen them. He’s dressed entirely in black, though he isn’t wearing gloves. Blood drips down his left palm, coats his finger.
My first thought is that Nate was right. I reach forward to touch him, expecting him to be a vision like everything else I’ve seen today. But my fingers don’t pass through him like I expect. Instead, they bounce against his chest. His very warm, very hard, very solid chest.
I scream then, scramble backward. I trip on a boulder and start to take a header into the lake but Ryder reaches out with his uninjured hand and snags me out of the air. For long, precarious seconds I’m dangling over the water, and then he’s reeling me in. Pressing me against his side.
“Jesus, Xandra, are you trying to kill yourself? What are you doing down here?” Ryder scowls at me as he drags me a little farther from the edge.
“What are you doing here?” I counter.
He shrugs, looks out over the lake. “Lina was my friend. I’ve been here a couple of times since you found her body. I don’t know what I’m looking for, but I have to try.”
It’s a reasonable excuse, certainly believable. But the oppressive feeling is still all around me, warning me of something I can’t quite figure out. Ryder doesn’t act like he feels anything, though, and I’m not sure if that’s a good sign or a bad one.
“What happened to your hand?” I ask, pointing at where the blood continued to run down his fingers and onto the ground.
He flushes, looks a little embarrassed. “I was doing a spell and got so caught up I forgot to close it.”
“Blood magic?” I whisper. I know there are witches and warlocks—even some wizards—who dabble in blood sorcery, but in my coven they are few and far between. My parents don’t approve of it, refused even to let my siblings or me learn the basics of it.
“It’s what I’m best at,” he tells me, casually pulling an athame out of his back pocket and running the flat part of the blade across his palm as he murmurs a few words. The wound closes up instantly, leaving only a pale pink scar where the cut used to be.
But his cut isn’t what I’m interested in. His dagger is. Long and curved…it looks nothing like the one I saw clutched in the murderer’s hand.
I relax a little. Tell myself I’m just letting my imagination get the better of me because of the situation. Nate doesn’t know Ryder, not the way I do. It’s crazy to think he’s out here up to no good.
And yet…I glance down at the crimson blood that has pooled on the ground. It makes me uncomfortable to look at it and the oppressive feeling gets worse. Though I’m not a witch who can feel the earth—or any of the elements for that matter—I swear I can feel it now. Shifting and trembling just under the surface as it seeks to rid itself of the dark magic done here. Ryder’s magic? I wonder as I take a judicious step away. Or the killer’s?
“Hey, you never told me what you were doing here,” Ryder says, matching me step for step as I make my way back up the trail to the street.
“The same thing you are. Looking for something to tell me who did this to Lina.”
His eyes narrow and the air around us grows even more menacing. I’m starting to panic now, even as I tell myself that there’s nothing to be afraid of. That Ryder would never hurt me. Still, it’s obvious that something’s not right. I need to get the hell out of here. Now.
I scramble the last few steps to the grassy knoll, then all but run across it in an effort to get to the street. Why the hell didn’t I bring my car? Why the hell did I let myself be drawn out here, again, with no way to get home?
“Hey, what’s the hurry?” Ryder asks, and his hand closes around my elbow, drawing me to a stop whether I want to keep going or not.
I turn to face him and he’s watching me carefully. I try to make up an excuse, but everything that flits through my mind sounds lame. I’ve got nothing.
Ryder steps even closer. “Hey, Xan, calm down.” He wraps an arm around me and starts walking me toward the curb. “You look like you’re about to jump out of your skin.”
I feel like I’m about to jump out of my skin. I don’t know what to do. My instincts are screaming at me to get out of this, to get away from Ryder, but the rest of me thinks it’s insane to even suspect him. This is Ryder, the guy who helped teach me how to ride a bike. Who gave me boy advice when I was thirteen and in love with the biggest jerk at school. He’s no threat to me.
Except at this moment, it kind of feels like he is.
I pull away and make a mad dash for the street. There has to be a cab around here somewhere, have to be some people walking their dog. If I can just get there—
“Hey!” Ryder yells and then he’s running after me. “Xandra? What are you doing? You’re going to hurt yourself!”
I don’t care. Everything inside of me is yelling for me to get the hell away from him. I don’t know if it’s the cowboy boots or my reawakened magic, courtesy of Declan, or simply my subconscious run wild. And frankly, I don’t give a damn right now. If I’m acting like a maniac I’ll deal with it later. Right now, I just want to get away.
I’m almost to the relative safety of the street when I hit a slick patch on the still wet ground. My boots, with their flat, not-yet-broken-in soles, skid out from under me and I go flying. I hit the ground hard.
Adrenaline races through me and I scramble to my feet, despite the stabbing pain running down my right knee. Behind me, Ryder curses and he’s close enough that I can feel his fingers brushing against my jacket. I try to lay on the speed, but I’m hobbling now—adrenaline or not—and I know that whatever escape I was mounting is over. There’s no way to evade Ryder now.
Just one more reason to tell my mother where she can put these damn cowboy boots.
“Xandra, stop!” Ryder’s hand closes around my elbow and yanks me to a halt. “What the hell is going on?”
Every self-defense move Donovan has ever taught me flits through my brain. I twist my arm away at the same time I hook my ankle behind his and kick through. It’s his turn to stumble and his grip loosens—just as I intended.
I pull my arm from his grasp and back up, making sure to keep him in my sights. My heart is beating wildly and my brain is screaming at me that I’m making a mistake. That I’ve got this all wrong. But I don’t care, can’t afford to care. Not right now. I’m not going to end up like Lina and Amy and Jacqueline. Not if I can help it.
“What the hell, Xandra?” Ryder sounds exasperated and a little concerned. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” I continue backing away from him. “I need to get home.”
“Let me take you. My car is just around the corner.”
I shake my head. There’s no way I’m getting in a car with Ryder. Not right now, not when I can’t tell what is real and what is a figment of my overstressed imagination. “I’m good. It’s not that far, just a block or two.”
He sighs, thrusts a hand through his hair in exasperation. “I know where you live. It’s more than a couple blocks. And look, it’s starting to rain.”
He holds a hand up, as if to show me the nonexistent raindrops. At that precise moment, lightning flashes and thunder rumbles across the sky. Seconds later, it opens up and rain pours down on us.
Damn magic. And damn Ryder, too. “It’s fine,” I tell him. “I like the rain.”
“What the hell is going on with you?” He sounds bewildered, and something else. Something I can’t quite put my finger on. It’s enough, though. I turn and flee.
I’ve gone only a few steps when he catches up to me—his hand wrapped around my upper arm. That’s it. I’ve had it.
I turn around, my hands bent into claws and I go for the eyes. Only it’s not Ryder who’s holding me. It’s Declan.
Twenty-two
What the hell? Where did he come fro
m?
I try to check my lunge, but it’s too late. The thought must register in Declan’s mind too, because at the last second he turns his head and my nails rake down his cheek instead of gouging out his eye. And even though I do my best to stop, I come away with a few layers of skin anyway.
“Shit!” I get a quick glimpse of blood dripping down Declan’s face as he twists me around so that my back is to his front. Then he wraps his arms around me and holds me in place, my own arms crossed over my chest.
His hold is gentle, tender even, and it keeps me from freaking out at being so completely immobile. At the same time, though, there’s still a small part of me that wants to go for his knees. I control it. Declan isn’t hurting me—in fact, he’s going out of his way to make sure neither one of us gets hurt. That knowledge is enough to let me breathe.
“You want to tell me what the fuck is going on?” The words are deep and growly and at first I think they’re directed at me.
I bristle, start to twist against him—for all the good it will do me—when I realize it isn’t me he’s upset with. It’s Ryder.
“How should I know?” Ryder answers, a wary look on his face that shows that he, too, is aware of the danger crackling in the air all around us. “We were down by the lake and she freaked out. I was only trying to help.”
Is that true? I wonder frantically. Was the threat I felt from him completely in my head? It didn’t feel that way at the time, but now that I’m safe I just don’t know. I hate the uncertainty, the sudden inability to trust my instincts. I don’t have magic, or at least, none that I can actually rely on. If my instincts are shot, too, I’m not sure what I’ll do.
Declan finally realizes that I have no plans to attack a second time and lets me go, slowly. But before I can do more than wipe the rain from my face, he steps in front of me and blocks me from Ryder’s gaze. Then, with one wave of his hand the rain disappears, as does the moisture in my clothes and hair. In fact, I’m perfectly dry when Declan turns to me and points toward the street. “My car is up there. Go wait in it and I’ll drive you home.”
