“We go to Angeles Forest,” he said finally. Decision made. But before he left he threw another long look at the freeway stretching out toward Long Beach.
He would find her. Wherever she was.
No one could keep her from him.
Chapter 10
The Terminal Island internment camp used to be a federal prison. It squatted on an artificial island between Los Angeles Harbor and Long Beach Harbor. Back when California was still a Spanish territory, the island was little more than a mudflat known to locals as Rattlesnake Island. But in the early twentieth century, the feds built a prison there and called it Terminal Island. The name had always had a sort of funereal feel to it, in Shea’s mind. But she’d never really noticed it much unless she was driving over the Vincent Thomas Bridge to San Pedro.
Now, though, everything had changed. The island had been emptied of everyday criminals when witchcraft was exposed and now it housed hundreds of suspected witches. Turned out people were more afraid of magic-casting women than they were of common murderers.
“What that says about people, I don’t know,” Shea whispered to herself, carrying a set of sheets along with a flat pillow and a threadbare blanket in her arms. She marched behind a heavily armed female guard and two other prisoners. She wasn’t the only witch to have been captured tonight.
Fluorescent lights cast an ugly glow over the sickly green walls and the faces of women peering through their barred cell doors. Shea felt dozens of stares fixed on her and she could only suppose that watching the arrival of new prisoners was the sole entertainment the women in here got.
She tipped her head back to look around and saw that above her there was another whole floor of cells. She wondered just how many women had been tucked away in this prison and forgotten. Her stomach churned and the heaviness on her soul felt worse than ever. The white gold chain around her neck continued to send icy threads of misery throughout her body as if reminding her that there was nothing she could do to free herself.
She took a deep breath and cast sidelong glances to the cells she passed on her walk. Women of all different ages and races stared back at her, hopelessness glistening in their eyes as they watched the latest arrivals.
Soon, Shea thought, she’d be one of them. Just another rat in a cage, locked away until someone, somewhere, decided what was to be done with her. And though the thought of being shut up behind bars terrified her, the noise in the prison was the worst part.
The incessant clang of steel bars slamming shut. The desperate sobbing, and under it all the softly pitched crackle of women’s voices rising and falling to the rhythm of the sea just beyond the prison walls. A guard shouted, a woman cried out and somewhere close by another prisoner moaned as if she were dying.
Despair clung to the walls and tainted every breath Shea drew. Panic was clawing at her, closing her throat so she could barely breathe, filling her eyes with tears she refused to shed. She wouldn’t give her jailers the satisfaction of seeing how scared she really was.
The female guard pushed the first woman in their line into a cell and slammed the door shut. The clang jolted Shea out of her thoughts and sent a cold ball of lead dropping into the pit of her stomach. Again they walked, continuing on past the rows of cells, their measured steps drowned in the cacophony of sound.
Shea’s mind continued to turn to the fierce man who had rescued her less than a day ago. She’d run from him, thinking that he was too dangerous. Too connected to the visions that haunted her. Would she have been in deeper trouble if she had stayed with him? Right now, she couldn’t imagine that.
The guard stopped and the prisoner in front of Shea stepped into a cell, the metal door sliding shut behind her with a finality that was soul shattering. Then it was only Shea, following the grim-faced guard.
An hour or so ago, the men who had captured her had reluctantly turned her over to the prison guards and Shea had been almost grateful. Yes, this was prison and God knew when—or if—she’d ever get out again. But at least, she’d told herself, she was away from the more imminent physical threat the men had presented.
Her arms tightened around her burden and the scent of bleach wafted up to her from the well-washed fabrics. She wore a pale blue jumpsuit and white sneakers with no laces. Her hair was loose and still damp from the supervised shower she’d been forced to take on arrival.
The tiny humiliations that had been heaped on her made all of this seem even more surreal. A bored prison guard had run her fingers through Shea’s long, thick hair, looking for concealed weapons. Another guard had watched Shea strip and then searched her discarded clothing. She tried not to recall the degradation of the strip search. And thinking about the inoculation the nurse had made as painful as possible only made her want to cry, which was useless. Then there was the open shower area that almost reminded Shea of high school gym classes until the water came on and it was icy cold. Two female guards had kept watch while Shea bathed as quickly as she could and then dried herself with a scratchy white towel.
The only item she’d been allowed to hang on to was the white gold chain around her neck, lying like ice against her skin. The cold sensations sank deep into her spirit, blanketing whatever she was or might have been.
This was her life now, she thought, glancing into the cells as she passed, watching woman after woman meet her gaze, then look away. A few stood, chins lifted, quietly defiant, but they were in the minority. Most had been beaten, emotionally if not physically. They, like her, were trapped in a cage designed to hold them forever.
There was no presumption of innocence for a witch.
“In you go.”
Shea looked at the guard in front of her and then turned her head toward the open cell door. Swallowing the bitter taste of fear and regret, Shea walked into the narrow, cheerless room. Pale green walls here too, in a cell no bigger than six feet by five feet. There was a slender bunk covered by a thin mattress, a bare toilet and a tiny sink with buttons rather than faucet handles. A single hard chair was the only other appointment in Shea’s new home. Glancing around, a fathomless well of desolation rose up within her. She let out a long sigh and slowly turned to watch the guard close the cell door, shutting her in.
Smiling, the guard stepped close to the bars and Shea moved back two paces, driven away by the cold gleam in the guard’s eyes.
“I heard about you,” the woman said, her voice nearly lost in the surrounding swell of sound. “Killed a man today, didn’t you? Enjoy it?”
“Of course not,” Shea said, arms tightening around the bundle of bedsheets.
“Sure, I believe you.” Sarcasm was thick in her voice and the woman’s eyes flashed with something dangerous. “Everyone knows what happened. Word spreads fast in a place like this. You used magic to kill a man.”
A swift, sharp stab of regret shot through her but she defended herself anyway. “He was attacking me.”
“Found you out, didn’t he?” the guard taunted. “Knew what you were and so you had to kill him. Shouldn’t have done it in front of witnesses, though. That was stupid.”
Shea took a deep breath. “That’s not what happened.”
No one would believe her. No one would ever hear her side of the story. New laws were being rushed through Congress every day. Laws that said dangerous witches weren’t entitled to a trial by their peers—because their peers were in prison. No human jury would sit on a trial for a witch because they were too afraid of retribution.
So there were no trials anymore.
Witches were now immediately imprisoned and, if deemed warranted, executed.
“It’s exactly what happened,” the woman said. “You’re no better than your aunt. And if you weren’t wearing that chain around your neck, you’d kill me in a heartbeat to escape, so don’t bother telling me any lies.”
The slurs on her aunt stung. Mairi had been one of the kindest, most gentle people Shea had ever known. And in one horrifying instant, she’d become Public Enemy Number One.
&
nbsp; Shea’s gaze dropped to the name tag the guard wore. JACOBS. When she spoke again, it was in a calm, rational tone. If she could win this woman’s understanding, maybe even make a friend here, there was a chance she could make her new life a little less hideous. “Officer Jacobs . . .”
“Don’t say my name!” she shouted, cheeks paling even as she pulled a nightstick from her belt and slapped it hard against the white gold bars, making Shea jump back farther and drop the sheets and blankets to the cold, cracked linoleum floor at her feet.
The harsh whack stilled everyone nearby. The silence was almost as unnerving as the racket had been before.
“Don’t ever say my name,” the woman said, eyes wide, mouth twisted into a feral snarl. “You try and spell me, witch, and you won’t live to see your legal execution. You’ll die right here.”
Shea’s gaze locked with the guard’s—and what she read in those dark brown eyes sent a chill racing through her. There was no safety anywhere now, she thought, realizing that the guards here had complete control over the inmates. And the “accidental” death of a witch wouldn’t even raise an eyebrow.
“Don’t you push me, Witch. Understand?”
Shea nodded, holding her breath, leery of even thinking about arguing, lest it show on her face. Slowly, the women around them came to life again and hushed voices once more whispered into the stale air. Seconds ticked past and the activity in the prison continued as if nothing out of the ordinary were happening—and that was probably true.
Threats and beatings were nothing new in the prison system, Shea realized. And not even the ACLU was willing to stand up and speak for a witch.
She was alone here.
Atonement, Torin had said. Was this part of it? Was she being punished now for something that had happened in another world, another life?
Alone, she shivered at her own thoughts and the empty dread filling her.
As the guard moved off with one last fulminating look, Shea slowly walked to the cell door to look out at her new home. The cold from the white gold did battle with a new kind of chill inside her.
Someone in the distance shouted, “Lights-out!”
One by one, the overhead lights blinked off as Shea looked across the dozens of women in nearby matching cells. Darkness crept along the cellblock and those women’s faces receded into the shadows.
As the last light flickered out, Shea understood a horrible truth.
They were all alone.
Chapter 11
Two men wouldn’t have stood a chance at breaking into the internment camp nestled deep in the forest.
Two Eternals, on the other hand, encountered little trouble.
Torin felt the drain to his powers from the proximity of the white gold that had been sprayed across the chain-link fence surrounding the camp. Though his magical abilities were weakened by the man-made element, his physical strength remained. He and his fellow Eternals had been created to be strong, nearly invincible. As if the demigod who was their creator had foreseen that one day man would find a way to abridge their magic, he had seen to it that Eternals would never be completely defenseless.
Torin and the others like him boasted superhuman strength and endurance. Their magic was not as extensive as that of the witches they protected, but their physical abilities were more than a match for the witches’ enemies.
The guards at this prison wouldn’t stop him from finding Shea.
Comfortable in the shadows as he would never be in the light, Torin moved with stealth, focused solely on the prisoners locked within the grim walls. There were armed guards patrolling the perimeter, and roving white lights swept the cleared area in front of the camp with clockwork precision.
Which worked in their favor.
It took only moments for Torin to realize the rhythm of the lights and understand how to avoid them. He shot a look at Rune, positioned off to his right, and nodded. As one, the two closed in on the enclosure, moving so quickly the human eye could barely track them.
The guards were oblivious and would remain so for as long as possible. Torin approached the wall, reached within himself for the power of the flames and instantly found himself inside the camp. As brightly lit as the outside was, here it was pitch-black. It was a calculated risk, drawing on his flames. A flicker of a flashlight beam sliced through the darkness on occasion as guards moved through the prison on their rounds.
I will find the cells. You locate the records room. See if there is mention of any new prisoners. Speaking telepathically to Rune, Torin parted ways with his friend a moment later. He had a more important mission to take care of.
The white gold layered throughout the prison dampened his powers but didn’t shut them down completely. A witch, who was of the earth, was more directly affected. An Eternal was born of the sun. Created from the very fires of the star, the Eternals could more easily withstand the cloying pull of white gold. Though even they couldn’t withstand its proximity for long.
Torin’s well-honed senses were tuned toward Shea. To the particular hum of her mind, her emotions. Her never-changing soul. After centuries spent near her, he knew the vibration of her life’s energies as well as he knew his own and so he was aware almost immediately that she wasn’t there. Still, he had to make sure.
The cellblock wasn’t hard to locate. A huge building in the center of a barren yard. There were bars on the high windows and a guard posted at the steel door. Not a problem, since he wouldn’t be using the entrance.
Once again, flames erupted across his skin, and this time Torin knew he wouldn’t go unnoticed. He was inside the prison proper. Guards would see the flash of brightness as his powers, dampened though they were, burst free, but they wouldn’t have enough time to stop him.
Instantly, he disappeared and rematerialized inside the cellblock. Outside the building warning sirens wailed as word spread of his presence. He paid them no mind.
Women in the cells awoke at the noise and started calling out to each other. And to him. He listened for one voice in particular and wasn’t surprised when he didn’t hear it. The time for stealth was past, so he called out, “Shea Jameson! Are you here?”
“Get us out of here,” a woman shouted back.
Other voices joined that refrain.
“Who are you?”
“What are you?”
“Help!”
His long legs ate up the vast hall separating two rows of cells. The white gold continued to affect him, but its presence wasn’t strong enough to completely incapacitate him. He felt the drain on his powers but refused to surrender to it, calling on his own inner strength to keep going. Nothing in this world or the next would keep him from his woman.
“Is Shea Jameson here?” He suspected she wasn’t and yet he called out anyway, determined to leave no stone unturned. His shout thundered over the women’s softer cries and for a split second, silence followed.
“Don’t know who she is.” A woman in the last cell answered him, her voice confidently shattering the quiet. She stepped up to the bars, grabbed hold of them and gave them an impotent shake. “Can you get us out of here?”
He stopped to look into her pale blue eyes, reading the fear and frustration written there. She tore at him, this nameless prisoner. As they all did. If he could have, he would have freed all of them. He was an Eternal, created to protect and defend; it went against every instinct he possessed to stand by as any female—especially a witch—was harmed in any way.
Even with the white gold chain around her neck and the bars separating them, he could sense her power, brutally buried within her. Fury for those who would cage women such as her—such as Shea—swept through him. But he had a mission. One that didn’t include playing hero.
“I cannot,” he said. He didn’t have the time to linger and had no way to get the woman to safety if he did help her escape. As it was, precious seconds were already gone. Rune was no doubt on his way to meet him and Torin hadn’t found Shea. Or even a trace of her.
“Damn it,” he whispered, as a sense of unease crept through him. He was wasting time while Shea was being held somewhere else, in a place too much like this one.
The witch stretched one arm through the bars for him, but couldn’t quite reach. Her fingers closed helplessly into her palm. Blowing out a breath, she whispered, “You’re an Eternal.”
Shocked, Torin narrowed his gaze on her. The Eternals were legend among witches, he knew. Their existence wasn’t a secret. But how had she recognized him as such? He felt no recognition for her. A buzz of warning slid through Torin’s veins. “How do you know of us?”
She laughed shortly. “Word travels,” she told him, running one hand through her short, spiky black hair. “When witches get together, we share information. I ran into a woman a year or so ago who told me about you guys.”
“How do you know I am one of them?”
She shrugged. “Who else could have gotten in here?”
Accepting that, he stepped closer and caught her scent, an earthy aroma that reminded him of both forest and sea. It was a blend of scents that usually clung to women with magical abilities. As if the elements themselves, gathering in the woman’s blood, were surfacing through her pores, allowing her to be one with nature and the very earth that would bolster her magic. There was something else here, too, he thought, trying to make sense of it.
“Who told you of us?” Was there another Awakened witch out there that they must find? He had thought Shea to be the first. And if there was another, where was her Eternal? Why hadn’t he found her?
Though there were witches all across the globe, there were only a select few to whom Eternals were bound. They were the chosen ones. Members of the once mighty coven that had paid a deadly price for their arrogance eons ago.
Instantly, the witch behind the bars shook her head. Face pale, eyes blazing, she said, “I’ll only tell you if you get me out.”
Visions of Magic Page 6
