Hidden Magic

by Amy Patrick

  She wriggled her hand until I released her then stretched it up and made another grab for the papers.

  “Not your thoughts,” I corrected. “Only your deepest desires.”

  Her eyes rolled upward. “Right. That’s so much better. Hand them over and give me some reading space.”

  My heart tapped a nervous rhythm in my chest as I surrendered and placed the letters in her waiting palm then watched as she read.

  Her face showed nothing. Did she think my words were corny and stupid? I’d been in a terrible state when I’d written those letters, not knowing if I’d ever get the chance to share my thoughts with her in person.

  Finally, she looked up. And pressed the letters to her chest, closing her eyes and tipping her head back on the headrest as tears ran from both eyes, leaving shiny tracks that reflected the light from the TV screen.

  I ventured a guess. A hope. “So… you like what I wrote?”

  Her eyelids opened, and she trained glistening eyes on me, giving me a watery smile. “And the award for best love letter ever goes to… Nicolo Buonoccorsi. Come and get your prize, mister.”

  I followed her instructions, leaning in for a kiss worthy of the big screen and thunderous applause. As she returned it with equal enthusiasm and my body heated, I was thankful we had no audience.

  * * *

  I should have won some sort of prize for self-restraint. Somehow I managed to make it all the way to the airport in Inverness without picking Macy up and carrying her back to the jet’s onboard bedroom.

  It wasn’t easy, but we still had a mission to complete. As the plane taxied, I watched Macy’s face. She was looking out the window, lines of tension bracketing her mouth. I had a feeling I knew what was bothering her.

  “My little hero ready to save the world?”

  She laughed, but it wasn’t a purely happy sound. “I wish I was a hero. Some Wonder Woman skills would come in pretty handy right now.”

  Turning to me, she revealed green eyes tainted with uncertainty.

  “I’m scared, Nic… of what’s going to happen— when we find them— or if we don’t. The problem is so big. What if I’m not enough?”

  “You are enough. You are exactly what you’re supposed to be. None of us can be any more or any less than that.”

  I stroked the underside of her chin, lifting it so our gazes connected. “We don’t know what the future holds, but we’ll do the best we can and trust that good will triumph and life will go on. And we’ll always be together, you and I… no matter what we find here in Scotland.”

  Epilogue

  Isle of Eigg, Scotland

  * * *

  I awoke to the smell of ocean air, and hay, and what was that? Was that… animal dung? Ugh. The trace of revolting odor was not helping the queasiness that already rocked my stomach—or the splitting headache.

  Sitting up, I looked around me. I was in a tiny room with bare wooden walls. The bed beneath me was small and not all that comfortable, but it was covered in clean sheets and several quilts. Other than the bed, the room contained a small dresser, an overstuffed upholstered chair, and an even more stuffed bookcase. A door stood open to reveal a tiny bathroom with a sink basin, toilet, and a smallish clawfoot bathtub. Though everything seemed fairly clean, it looked old. Shabby. Like the furnishings inside a poor person’s home—not that I’d ever been in a poor person’s home. Where was I?

  To my right, a single small window punctuated the rough-hewn wall. I slid from the bed and went to it, holding the wall for balance. I felt strange, as if I’d slept very deeply after staying up way too late or overindulged at one of Babbo’s opulent Court gatherings. Peering outside did nothing to help me ascertain my location. It was night, and high clouds covered the moon.

  It appeared I was on the second floor of a building because my vantage point was high. In the muted light all I could make out was what appeared to be a large open field, and beyond it, the ocean.

  But which one? I’d done so much traveling recently, I momentarily lost track of my point on the map from time to time. Considering my tacky accommodations, I got the distinct impression that this location hadn't been one of my choosing.

  The last thing I could remember was staring into Nic’s eyes. He’d offered to leave with me, go back to Italy, and marry me. My heart, which had frozen over long ago, shimmered with a spark of something—hope? Redemption? He seemed to understand I hadn’t meant to activate the virus, and he seemed to have some sort of plan to stop it.

  And then… pain. Blinding, deafening pain. An excruciating pressure in my ears that wiped every thought from my mind and dropped me to the ground, feeling like my head would explode.

  The nymph. She must have done something to me. The lore on them was sparse—who knew what secret powers they might have? She’d made Nic fall in love with her, that was for sure.

  Why had she stopped me from speaking with him? I was about to tell him where the Plague had been unleashed.

  I went to the door and turned the handle—or tried to. It was locked. Pounding on its sold surface with my fist, I called out. “Hello! Hello out there. I demand that you unlock the door this instant.”

  There was no sound at first, and then… a whinny. What? Yes, there it was again, the unmistakable sound of hooves stomping a wooden floor followed by another horsey cry. Was I in a stable?

  What on earth would I be doing in a stable? As an avid rider and horse lover, I’d spent time in them my whole life, but this was definitely not the stable at my father’s castle in Italy. Our horses lived in far more luxurious circumstances than this.

  Turning to survey the sparse room again, I realized it must have been a stable boy’s lodgings. It wasn’t even nice enough to suit a stable master.

  Beating on the heavy door again, I said, “If anyone’s down there who speaks Italian instead of equine, I demand that you open this door and release me at once.”

  Then it occurred to me that whomever might be listening may not understand Italian. I tried the same words in French, and then in Spanish. Nothing.

  Hmmm. The last place I’d visited was England. The village of Bristol where the young girl Macy had corresponded with lived. Yes. It made sense that I could still be in England.

  Speaking in English now, I repeated my demands. “I want you to let me out of this room right now. If you have any idea who I am, you know my father will come looking for me with an entire army, so it would behoove you to obey me.”

  There was no answer save for a few additional whinnys. Wonderful. Either I was alone in here except for the horses, or whoever had locked me in this room heard me but had no interest in answering.

  Stomping in frustration, I went back to the window and attempted to push it open. It was the kind that cranked open to the side instead of sliding up. Furious, I rotated the crank as quickly as it would turn, but it opened only a few inches before stopping. There would be no jumping from this window—it was designed to admit fresh air, not to open fully.

  Well, if it could admit air, it could also release sound. Putting my mouth to the opening, I screamed, “Help! Help me. I’ve been kidnapped. I’m being held here against my will—upstairs over the stable. Somebody help me.”

  I kept that up in every language I knew as long as my voice held out, about two hours as best I could determine. Finally, my throat dry and aching, I cranked the window closed again—the night air pouring into the room was cold—and went into the small bathroom to get a drink from the faucet.

  On the back of the sink there was a porcelain cup and a toothbrush, along with a small tube of toothpaste and a bar of soap. A folded towel and washcloth lay draped over the side of the bathtub. I snorted.

  Welcome to hell. Make yourself at home.

  Grabbing the cup, I filled it and drank until it was empty, then filled it again, drained it again.

  Okay then, what now?

  I was exhausted—the mirror above the basin confirmed it, showing bleary eyes and sallow skin. I was also
hungry. But seeing as my dinner choices were either a bar of soap or book pages, I decided to go to bed. I’d be better able to determine my escape chances in the daylight anyway.

  Opening the toothbrush package, I took it out and used it then washed my face. I didn’t exactly have a suitcase here in my jail cell, so I crawled under the covers wearing what I’d put on this morning and pulled the quilts up to my chin, a bit regretful I’d left the window open for so long. It was chilly.

  Though my body was tired, my brain had a hard time settling into sleep. I had no idea where I was, how I'd gotten here, or what was going to happen to me. Someone could unlock that door and come in during the night, and there wasn't a thing I could do to stop them. Suddenly I felt like screaming again—not for rescue—simply out of fear.

  There was a loud, creaking noise, and I did scream, bolting upright in the bed. The horses below me made no sounds of alarm. Whatever the noise was, they were used to it. Knowing the creatures as well as I did, that reassured me—they had an excellent sense of danger. If some kind of threat was around, they’d definitely react.

  Don’t panic, Alessia. Stay calm and rational. Keep your wits about you.

  I still had my glamour. Dr. Schmitt had taught me to control it somewhat. He’d told me there was no way to tone it down or pull it back, but if I wanted to, I could turn it up, increase its intensity and take someone from healthy to gravely ill in an instant. My little captor was going to get a big surprise when I finally saw her face-to-face.

  I was convinced it was Macy. Had to be. And then it hit me. Nic must have helped her—how else could she have transported me here… wherever here was. He had tricked me—lied to me to give her a chance to strike. Beneath the covers, my cold fingers clenched into fists. I hated him, hated them both. They were going to pay for this.

  I had been ready to tell him the location of the fan pod girl who’d touched me, to give him a chance to try to stop what I’d inadvertently started and save the precious humans he cared so much for. Ha.

  Now he could find out where she was the way the rest of the world did—by tracking the path of death and destruction. The thought gave me solace, and the fear for my own safety subsided.

  Sometime during the night I must have drifted to sleep because rays of sunlight falling on my eyelids woke me the next morning. I opened them, looked around, and confirmed that no, the room above the stable was not a nightmare but my new reality. Bellissimo.

  The temperature in my wooden cell was warm again. I threw off the covers and stalked to the door, intending to beat on it, but stopped before I reached it. I’d nearly stepped on a tray full of food. Ah, so it would be solitary confinement but not forced starvation.

  I would’ve loved to spite my jailer and leave the tray untouched, mounting a hunger strike. But self-deprivation was not my style. I was ravenous. I lifted the tray and carried it to the bed, snagging the bread roll first and wolfing it down before picking up the spoon and tasting whatever grainy hot cereal filled the porcelain bowl. Cream of wheat. Blech. I’d always despised the stuff.

  It didn't matter. I ate it anyway. I needed my energy if I was going to mount a full-power glamour attack against my captor… who’d apparently entered the room while I was sleeping to deliver this tray. That gave me pause.

  I shivered at the thought of someone watching me while I slept, but then I smiled. If I was still in here tonight, I’d make sure to stay awake and be ready to strike.

  I finished off the breakfast plate, which included several slices of bacon and a pear, then investigated the contents of the small, lidded pitcher on the tray. Coffee. Fine. I was more a tea drinker, but it was hot and contained caffeine. It would do. Filling the china cup I’d been provided, I left the bed and walked over to look through the window at the daytime view.

  I’d been right about the open field and the ocean. In the light of day it was quite a lovely vista—or would be if you weren’t viewing it from a prison. Rolling green hills sloped down to a wide-open seascape. Small whitecaps dotted the deep blue of the water.

  Shifting to look in the other direction, I caught a glimpse of a structure farther up the hill. I could only see part of it—covered in weathered shingles, it had an octagonal tower at one end and seemed to be quite large. A house. Or maybe another barn?

  Cranking the window open again, I prepared for this morning's shouting session. Perhaps in the daytime someone would be around to hear me and come to my rescue. Fresh salt-scented air rushed through the window. It was a windy day, apparently.

  I inhaled deeply, opened my mouth… the loud creak came again. And again. It was coming from outside—not here in the stable. The creaking picked up speed then faded, replaced by a slow and regular whooshing noise. What was that?

  Stretching to push my face through the narrow window opening, I craned to see more of the structure up the hill. Something large swooped through my field of vision then disappeared. Came back. Disappeared.

  Oh, a windmill.

  That’s what the noise was. No wonder the horses weren't alarmed. They heard this every day. Okay, so there was a stable, and an ocean, and a windmill attached to a wood-shingled house. Where on earth was I?

  “Hello?” I shouted through the window. “Can anyone hear me? I need help. I’m being held captive. Help me. Please.”

  I continued to call out as the sea breeze carried my voice up the hill where it was shredded and scattered by the windmill blades. I watched and waited. No one came. No one heard, or if they did, they didn’t care.

  Sometime in mid-morning I heard the sound of footsteps below and then a distinctive scraping noise. Someone was mucking the stalls. There was a person nearby! Or an Elf. Or a nymph. Whatever. At least there was someone who could hear and understand me—and soon, hopefully, no more manure smell.

  “I know you’re down there,” I shouted through the door. “You need to let me out. This is kidnapping, and you are going to be in a lot of trouble.”

  It had gotten quiet down below. I took the opportunity to amp up my warnings. “Do you know who I am? I am a princess. My father is very rich and powerful, and you cannot even imagine what he’ll do to you when he finds out what you’ve done.”

  There was no response, only the resumed sound of a shovel scraping on wood and noises of recognition and camaraderie from the horses. They knew what was coming next, either some fresh hay or turnout time. The person below was probably their regular caretaker, maybe a stable boy or someone else who wasn’t actually party to the kidnapping but had been warned to ignore the crazy woman upstairs.

  Hmmm. Maybe a different approach was in order. “You know… even if you’re only working for them, you’ll be held responsible. Do you hear me?”

  The silence infuriated me. I was about to yell again and pound on the door, demanding to be set free, when I thought better of it. If the person down there wasn’t actually in on my abduction, perhaps reasoning with them—or gaining their sympathy—instead of threatening them, was a better tack.

  Calming myself, I leaned against the door and made my voice more pleading than dictatorial.

  “Please—if you can hear me… please tell me what’s going on. I’m frightened. I have no idea where I am and no idea how I got here.”

  The scraping below stopped.

  Encouraged, I continued my appeal. “My head aches horribly from whatever they did to me, and…” I scrambled for another pity ploy. “And it’s rather cold in this room. I was freezing last night.”

  At first there was nothing. But then I heard a new sound—footsteps mounting the stairs. My heart leapt and kicked into a rapid, optimistic rhythm.

  My fingers wiggled in anticipation. The second the door opened, I would attach them to the bare skin of whomever was on the other side and give them the worst sickness of their lives. Then I would get the hell out of this crummy wooden box and send someone back to burn the place down—after the horses were removed, of course.

  The footsteps stopped right outside th
e door. I renewed my efforts to sound pitiful and helpless. “Please let me out of here. Or at least tell me where I am. I’m confused and afraid. Also… I don’t really care for cream of wheat.”

  There was a laugh. Low. Masculine. The sound shocked me. I moved back from the door, my heart pounding.

  “Nic? Is that you? Nic, are you out there?”

  The voice that answered was deep and resonant and sent chills down my spine. “Who’s Nic?”

  The accent was English. No one that I recognized. If he honestly didn’t know who Nic was, then he really was just a stable boy—man—whatever—or I’d been very wrong about who had brought me here and locked me up.

  Fighting a fresh surge of panic, I fired off several questions, unable to control myself. “Where am I? Why am I here? Who are you?”

  There was a chuckle, but then the guy answered. “You are a guest at my home. You’re here because apparently you got on the bad side of some pretty dangerous witches.”

  There was a pause.

  “And my name is Wes. You might as well settle down and relax, princess, because you’re going to be here for a long, long time.”

  * * *

  The Hidden Saga continues with HIDDEN HERO. Click here to get your copy now and find out what happens next in the Hidden world!

  Afterword

  Thank you so much for reading Hidden Magic, Book 2 of the Ancient Court Trilogy (Hidden Saga, book 8.) I really hope you enjoyed it. If you did, please consider leaving a review at the retailer where you purchased it, and if your fingers aren’t too tired, at Goodreads, too. Just a few words is all it takes, and reviews help other readers find great books!

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