Witch Hunt

by Layla Nash

  Chapter 68

  Miles

  He heard her scream his name. His name. It echoed through him and he lost all control as they charged across a model home west of that shit’s house. Evershaw flew into his wolf form without conscious thought and broke through the door, ignoring the pain of a battered shoulder and splinters in his paws and chest. Deirdre. Deirdre was there.

  He smelled her everywhere in the air, along with hints of awful magic and smoke, and he paused only long enough to inhale deeply before his claws tore into the carpet and launched him at a door that led to a basement. He didn’t give a shit where anyone else was in the house, nor that Smith floated through the still-closed door like it didn’t exist. All that mattered was Deirdre.

  Evershaw launched off a wall and snarled as he caught sight of Deirdre through the smoke, tied to a shattered chair, as that son of a bitch stood over her and shouted something that felt heavy in his ears. Magic. He hated that fucking magic.

  The scream that ripped out of Deirdre tore through him, rending his heart and soul and the very core of his body. Evershaw leapt and snapped his jaws closed around Palmer’s throat, the kid cutting off with a gurgle, and all the weird static in the air crackled into lightning that illuminated every corner of the basement.

  Evershaw staggered as he hit the ground, his chest empty, and it felt as though he’d died—truly died. The world ended inside him as he stared at Deirdre’s prone, still form. The link to her had disappeared; that familiar, irritating little itch in the back of his head that was her faded to nothing.

  “No,” he said, and fell to his human knees next to her.

  Todd cursed and ran into the room with a fire extinguisher, trying to manage the flames, but Evershaw didn’t give a shit. He’d burn with it all. Deirdre was dead. The son of a bitch killed her, and it was Evershaw’s bad luck that he could only kill the fucker once.

  When Smith got too close to his fallen mate, Evershaw growled a warning. The old man wouldn’t touch her. No one would touch her. His throat closed and a keening cry tore free. Evershaw clenched his jaw until his teeth cracked and he saw nothing but bright red sparks.

  “She’s not dead,” Smith said. The smoke avoided him, somehow curling away from the bastard as he stood all serene and unruffled in the middle of the darkness, and left a cloud of clear air around the ErlKing. Smith held out his hands, gesturing for Evershaw to hand Deirdre over. “He did something magical. She isn’t dead, just stunned. Let me evaluate the damage.”

  “Upstairs,” Todd barked. He tossed aside the spent fire extinguisher and covered his mouth and nose with his sleeve. “Get her upstairs, or we’re all going to die from fucking smoke inhalation. If we don’t burn to death. Get moving.”

  Evershaw snarled at him in warning, and his cousin backed up a step, though his gaze remained steely. “She lives, Miles. Focus on her. Get Deirdre upstairs. Save her life. She needs fresh air; the medic is already on the way.”

  The fog of despair in his thoughts cleared somewhat, and Evershaw found a new goal. Get Deirdre upstairs. She didn’t deserve to lie down there in the darkness and smoke. She needed sunlight and fresh air. He growled and scooped her up, ignoring the lean dark figure of the ErlKing as Smith followed him, and took the stairs three at a time until he shouldered aside the remnants of the basement door.

  Sirens rose up far away, and several of the pack handed down buckets of water and hoses and more fire extinguishers, though they went silent and still as he walked past with Deirdre in his arms.

  Evershaw made it to the front lawn and the cool grass before he went to his knees once more. He held Deirdre close to his chest and turned his face to hers, squeezing his eyes shut so he wouldn’t see the blank expression on her face. He inhaled from her hair and found that thread of scent that was hers alone. Deirdre. He couldn’t live without her.

  Chapter 69

  Miles

  She stirred and he froze, arms still tight around her, and the witch’s eyes fluttered as she tried to open them. Evershaw held his breath and brushed the hair from her face. “Deirdre. Deirdre, can you hear me?”

  Smith approached from behind and Evershaw growled to warn him off. The ErlKing retreated to a safe distance, though he cleared his throat. “Evershaw, there is something—”

  Evershaw’s snarling grew louder and the old man cut off, then the alpha could turn his attention back to his mate. Even though he didn’t understand what had happened, she was still his mate. That much would always be true. He inhaled from her over and over, desperate to convince himself that she was still there, she was still her. Even if the connection that made it clear she was his mate had been severed. Somehow.

  God help him, for a moment he thought he’d lost her and wanted to die. He’d wanted to walk into traffic and end it, because life without those eyes and that smile and that attitude... A knot tied his throat and made it impossible to talk, so he just smiled and brushed the back of his knuckles against her cheek. “Deirdre.”

  Something wasn’t right. Something definitely wasn’t right. She’d lost the spark that made her his, that ignited the fire in his chest. The wolf howled in mourning.

  He sat her up and let her look around, though she didn’t turn. She didn’t display any interest in the house burning behind him or the pack members hanging back a respectful distance so Evershaw wouldn’t murder them for getting too close to his mate. Deirdre only blinked and breathed. She didn’t even look at him. It was like she was gone; all the spirit and attitude that made up his mate had evaporated and left behind only the shell of her body.

  The awful keening cry rose up in his chest and the pack moved nervously, looking around, and Evershaw held Deirdre closer. She had to be okay. She had to be.

  Smith approached slowly, his face suddenly weathered like an ancient oak tree, but sat on his heels well beyond arm’s reach. “Deirdre.”

  She didn’t look at him. She didn’t respond. Just sat there and let Evershaw hold her. His voice escaped, rough as rocks breaking, “What happened to her? What did that bastard do?”

  “He meant to sever the ties to you and me,” the ErlKing said, then gestured for someone else to approach. A faceless servant, mostly smoke and vapor, floated closer to hand over the ashy remains of a book. “That is what the spell was intended to do. He no doubt saw you and me as a threat to winning her over, or perhaps making her compliant. We will not know for certain.”

  “Then what the fuck happened? He wanted her like this?” Evershaw’s growl twisted into an aggrieved cry. The son of a bitch. The sick son of a bitch stole away the best parts of Deirdre—the maddening attitude and self-confidence, the sassy mouth, the caring heart and soft smile and that sharp look in her eyes when she told him he was being a big baby.

  Smith handed the crumbling book back to the ghostly servant, and both disappeared into nothingness. “Perhaps. I do not think it went as intended. Can you still feel a bond with her?”

  “No,” Evershaw said. He stroked the hair back from her face, hoping that the gesture would reawaken her irritation. But she remained passive and silent. “It was like…she died. She just disappeared out of the pack bond, out of our bond, and... I lost my mate. I lost her.”

  “She is not gone,” Smith said gently. “She is here. I do not think all of her has been cast adrift by the miscast spell. I will research and try to understand what this is. I do not know how to fix this, but I will do everything in my power to bring her back.”

  Evershaw rested his forehead against Deirdre’s shoulder, not caring that his pack watched him mourn the loss of his mate while she sat in his lap, and couldn’t risk looking at Mercy’s tearstained face. “What am I supposed to do now? What…where do we go from here?”

  “Take her home,” Smith said. He rose and stepped back. “Her home, ideally. Surround her with familiar things. Reach out to her aunt to see if there is a witchcraft remedy, or something in their books that will facilitate healing. Talk to her. Feed her. And do not lose hope. We ca
n fix this.”

  Evershaw couldn’t entertain the alternative, but the alpha part of him knew he might have to face the cold reality of living without his mate. “And if we can’t?”

  “We can. Do not lose hope. I will tell you when it is time to lose hope.”

  He didn’t like that. He didn’t like that at all. His thoughts drifted to the favors he could call in among the shifters. Maybe Rafe’s freaky mate with the weird powers could help, or Benedict Chase’s part-Medusa mate with the magic blood that healed everything. There weren’t physical wounds on her, but maybe it worked on mental trauma or spiritual issues or whatever the fuck stole Deirdre away.

  Evershaw didn’t look up as Smith retreated and disappeared into thin air, nor as Todd approached and muttered about fire trucks arriving and needing to get moving. He stood, cradling Deirdre, and strode over to the waiting SUV. The pack dispersed, some running off in wolf form, and they avoided the police cars and fire trucks that flooded the street. Evershaw didn’t care. He held Deirdre in the back seat of the SUV and prayed for the first time that he could remember in a very long time.

  He needed her. It wasn’t like when Ashley left. Losing Deirdre would end him. He wouldn’t get over her; there wasn’t a way to carry on and start over. He’d walk into the woods and have done with it. Todd could lead the pack. All Evershaw needed was his witch. He closed his eyes and squeezed her tight to his side. Maybe Smith was right and he just needed to hope.

  But deep in his chest, in his heart of hearts, he feared they were already too late.

  Chapter 70

  Miles

  He spent the next two days pacing. Evershaw put Deirdre in the comfortable chair in his living room, wrapped up in blankets, and watched her for any sign of improvement. Any sign of change.

  She ate when fed and drank when presented with a cup. She didn’t resist when someone took her hand to pull her to her feet or ushered her to a chair or bed to rest. It made his nerves twitch to see her like that, knowing what the sick son of a bitch had done to her, but he couldn’t fix it. He couldn’t kill the prick a second time. He couldn’t do anything to save her.

  Even that miserable cat didn’t stir Deirdre. Cricket hopped up on her lap once, eyed his mama, and hissed before heaving himself to the ground and stalking off. Evershaw scowled at the unhelpful beast and went back to his pacing. No one else had so far been able to do anything useful.

  Smith’s research went nowhere. Calling Deirdre’s aunt led to a bunch of strangers walking through his living room and pack house, examining her, and muttering under their breath about solutions and potions and the moon only knew what else. Her aunt, at least, looked aggrieved to see the crimes her disciple committed. But none of the witches knew how to fix her. Instead they muttered about needing the exact original spell in order to reverse it, and since the witch who cast it was dead and the book he’d used turned to ash, there was apparently nothing they could do to help.

  One offered the rather unhelpful suggestion that Deirdre could have herself figured out a way to reverse the effects. Evershaw’s growl motivated them to depart with some degree of haste, with Mercy herding them out before his wolf took control and further destroyed the relationship between the witches and the shifters.

  Every day brought worse news. Each hope that was raised was eventually dashed and brought him that much lower. Evershaw spent his days staring at her, talking to her, hoping she would focus her eyes on him and actually see him.

  He couldn’t survive without her. The pack knew it. No one bothered him, instead retreating to the fringes of the building so they wouldn’t make noise or otherwise disturb Evershaw and his mate. Todd took over all the business decisions, Henry handled security, and Mercy made sure he ate and slept occasionally.

  Evershaw pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes as he sat across from Deirdre, watching her sit there. Just existing. Breathing and maybe listening. Maybe she heard him through whatever spell it was that stole her will.

  So he talked. He propped his feet up on the ottoman next to hers, making sure his skin touched hers, and started talking. He told her everything—every triumph and disaster, every love and loss, every bad decision and gamble he’d ever taken.

  It took days. He talked until his voice went hoarse and his vision blurred with exhaustion and grief, and through it all, he looked for a sign. Nothing.

  It was the end of a very long week that he sat in silence again, unable to move and unable to generate more ideas. What the fuck was he going to do? Would he keep her like that, like a piece of fucking furniture, forever? Was there an expiration date when it would be acceptable to find her an assisted living home? Did witches have such a thing?

  He ran his hands through his hair and stared at her blankly, wishing with all of his strength and mental energy that she would just get better. Just sit up and smile at him. His love should have healed her. His love should have been enough.

  And if it wasn’t... then he wasn’t good for much at all.

  Evershaw covered his face and held back the grief that ripped through him. He couldn’t fight an invisible spell and the dead witch who’d cursed her.

  A weight landed in his lap and for a blinding moment, he thought that maybe she’d woken up and crawled into his lap to hug him. Instead, he found the mountain lion she called a house cat sitting on his thighs, staring at him.

  Evershaw waved at the cat, trying to shoo him away. “Go. I’m not in the mood to be a scratching post.”

  The cat’s tail lashed against his legs, and the beast’s expression darkened with irritation. Which made Evershaw’s lungs squeeze until he could hardly draw breath. The cat kneaded its paws in Evershaw’s thigh, driving his claws deep, until Evershaw focused all of his attention on the gray and brown fur ball. “What do you want?”

  The cat meowed and looked back over its shoulder at Deirdre, and something in the air grew sad. Evershaw must have lost his fucking mind. The cat was just a cat. It didn’t have feelings that it could convey to him. Evershaw sure as fuck wasn’t going to be mentally attached to a cat. Cricket blinked owlishly a few times, then lifted one massive paw to daintily groom his leg.

  Evershaw gripped the arms of the chair where he sat and stared at the beast as the sense of connection grew. The cat wanted to fucking talk to him. It felt just a touch like when he spoke to his pack, when they communicated mind-to-mind as wolves and across forms. They used sentences and actual conversations between shifters, but the cat was more like... pictures. Brief flashes of an impression, strung together to give an overall sense of meaning. A foreign fucking language for sure.

  And part of him still didn’t fucking believe it. It had to be a dream. Deirdre’s cat couldn’t actually be that smart, or a trapped shifter, or whatever the fuck kind of beast that could communicate mind-to-mind with a human or shifter.

  Cricket’s eyes narrowed as he looked at Evershaw, so clearly unimpressed with his train of thought that Evershaw’s wolf took notice and offense at the same time.

  He fought for control, then took a deep breath and figured it wouldn’t hurt to indulge the hallucination. Maybe it would be a little helpful, at least, or get rid of some of the tension. “Fine. What do you want? Mercy already fed you, and you’re getting too fat as it is. Deirdre will kill me when she comes back and finds you too fucking heavy to do more than drag your belly across the ground.”

  The beast’s eyes slitted and his tail lashed faster, thumping against Evershaw’s knees. A few more pictures drifted from the cat to him and made his breath catch once more. Deirdre, smiling and laughing, happy and talking. Her lounging on a couch reading a book on a rainy afternoon, the cat curled up on her chest, and daydreaming in a hammock. Beautiful memories, and ones that Evershaw wanted for his own. Without the cat in them, preferably.

  Which just earned him a rumbling growl from the little beast.

  Evershaw pinched the bridge of his nose to cut off the burn of grief that he might not ever have the chance to make th
ose memories, with or without the cat. “I know. I miss her too. I don’t know how to bring her back.”

  He’d never not known what to do. He always had a few choices or a plan or something. His head tilted back so he could stare at the ceiling. Every time he caught a glimpse of Deirdre in the corner of his eye, he thought for a brief flash that she was back and normal and he’d gotten everything he wanted in life. Then all his hopes crashed back to earth and killed a little more of him, one piece at a time.

  The weight in his lap shifted as the cat moved, then two massive paws landed on his chest, along with what felt like twenty tiny little ice picks of pain. The cat dug in and gave Evershaw the fiercest look he’d ever seen from another living creature, and his heart cracked just a little. Of course the beast loved Deirdre. How could it not?

  “What do you want from me?” Evershaw asked. His voice cracked but he didn’t bother pushing the cat away or dropping it off the sofa. He didn’t question why the fuck he was talking to a house pet. “I don’t know how to fix her.”

  Cricket purred, those bright green eyes suddenly eerily similar to Deirdre’s, and more flashes of insight drifted across Evershaw’s thoughts. The creaky old house where Deirdre lived, filled with sunlight and quiet and familiar things. The green and overgrown garden with the scary-ass poisonous plants and the many other beautiful ones. A workroom upstairs and downstairs, a room full of books, her bedroom with the quilt and no other personal mementos.

  Maybe there was something about her house...

  Evershaw looked at the cat. “She’ll get better if I take her home?”

  The cat blinked.

  He covered his eyes. He had to be fucking kidding himself. He couldn’t take the advice of a cat. A non-magical, non-shifter cat who was a witch’s pet.