Water & Flame (Witches of the Elements Series Book 1)

by Alejandra Vega

  Abigail and her mother spoke on the subject a few other times, and if she was honest with herself, she had to admit that her opinion was swinging toward her mother’s viewpoint.

  Until the day she received the vision her mother had sent just before her death, some four years later.

  When Abigail witnessed the way the onlies ambushed Olivia and set her up for the fire witches to kill, she stopped questioning her view of the non-magical humans. She blamed the fire witches, but she also developed an intense hatred for the onlies who were involved. That hatred leaked out to taint her view of all onlies, enough to bring her old prejudice back with a vengeance.

  Abigail tried to be respectful and polite, but even as she pretended, she was convinced that those without magical abilities were just not as good as magic users. Whenever memories of the conversations with her mother popped into her mind, she cast them out ferociously. The images of the death of her mother were too vivid, the feelings too raw and powerful. Her attitude would stay. For better or worse, it would stay.

  She sighed and gave herself a rueful look in the mirror. It was time she got started. She had things to do and a mission to get underway. Squeezing the carved stone angel in her hand and then stroking it with her thumb, she set it back down in its resting place. She normally kept it with her at all times, a sort of talisman against the bad thoughts and memories, but she couldn’t bring anything so personal with her on the mission. It would have to remain there, and her memories of her mother would have to be sufficient in themselves.

  She turned and left the room, her steps becoming firmer and her stride more confident as she went.

  Chapter 6

  Abbie went to one of the meeting rooms. The house, an estate really, had been built by her ancestors and named Aqua Terra more than a hundred years earlier. It had been renovated and expanded several times over the years. The Hendersons were always an influential family, being one of the first to settle in the area that became Jackson, Wyoming, and they later offered the use of their home as a sort of headquarters for the growing coven.

  As befit the ancestral home of water witches, the grounds had several water features. A fair-sized lake was nearby, as well as a river, several streams, scattered ponds, and fountains all around the developed areas. It was a gorgeous, green place. At least, that’s the way Abigail saw it as she grew up there.

  It had been seventy-two years since the coven began using Aqua Terra as their base. Only once in that time was the High Water Caster a Henderson. Abigail’s mother.

  The family had always been powerful in magic and had produced some gifted witches, but fear of the appearance of favor always swayed the election of the supreme witch so others were named to that office. With Olivia Henderson, though, there was no competition. She was singular in every way. Never once had there been any accusation of favor in electing her to the position. She was universally loved and respected within the water witch community, as well as the earth and air witch communities. Obviously, the fire witches did not feel the same.

  Abigail opened the wooden door with a storm cloud carved in it to a chamber that had been renovated into a meeting room. The fireplace crackled with the burning logs within, casting light in a warm circle around it and taking a bit of the chill off the early March morning. The woman sitting at the oval table didn’t look up from the papers she was reading when Abigail entered.

  “Hi, Isabella,” Abbie said, causing the woman to start. “Have you been there all night? It’s daylight out, you know.” She went to the windows and opened up the drapes, letting the morning light in. It splashed across the room, revealing the bookshelves that lined the wall and the couches and chairs near the fireplace. Paintings of forest scenes with rivers and lakes, with the occasional portrait of some Henderson or another, dotted the walls.

  As the light reached her, Isabella Lee squinted and looked up from the papers she was reading by the light of the table lamp. She stood, straightening to her full five foot nine inch height, then arched her back like a cat while rubbing it with her hands and grunting. She sort of looked like a cat. A starving cat. She was the skinniest person Abigail had ever seen. Even her brown hair was thin. Rather, it was fine, hanging straight down past her shoulders and covering the edges of Isabella’s long face. Her hazel eyes met Abbie’s and a smile split her face. Despite her unhealthy pallor, the smile made her almost beautiful.

  “Abbie.” Isabella straightened and motioned toward one of the chairs at the table. “No, I haven’t been here all night. I’ve only been here a couple of hours. It was dark when I came in, and I didn’t really notice the time. Sit, sit. Let’s talk about what we’ll be doing.”

  Abigail smiled back at her and took a seat. “What are you looking at?”

  “Some of the information we’ll need for the mission.” She chuckled.

  “What’s so funny?” Abigail asked.

  “Oh, ‘mission.’ It makes it sound like we’re some kind of big espionage bureau or something, like we’re the CIA.”

  Abigail let loose a little bit of nervous laughter herself. “I know, it’s strange when we call these activities missions. Still, that’s really what they are, right?”

  “I suppose so. I shouldn’t laugh. It’s serious work. Anyway, this file,”—she handed over a thick file, papers and photos wrapped in a paper accordion cover—“is all the information we have on Margaret Huntsman. You should read it all before you start.”

  Abigail flipped through the pages absently, but her mind didn’t even register what she was looking at until she got to the picture of the woman. She was middle aged with a strong-looking face and dark hair with some gray shot through it. Her beak of a nose was prominent, but it was her hazel eyes that really drew attention. It reminded Abbie of the “thousand-yard stare” that people always talked about with hardened criminals but with just enough softness to keep her from looking like a psychopath. Instead, it made her look strong as iron. The set of her mouth in a tight, thin line didn’t make the image any friendlier.

  “That’s her,” Abigail said. “The one responsible for Mother’s murder. I saw that woman’s face clearly in the vision Mother sent me.”

  “I know you believe that, Abbie,” Isabella said. “And she does seem to be the most likely suspect. I believe you saw her in your mother’s memories, but, unfortunately, we can’t use that as hard proof. Your brother and sister didn’t receive the whole memory like you did, so there aren’t even any other witnesses to back it up. We can’t confirm it officially until you get in there and find some evidence.”

  “Evidence.”

  “Yes. I would go myself, but I’m not up to going out and dealing with things like that. My ability to identify particular witches or warlocks by the residue of magic they have used is valuable, but my magic is generally too weak to handle things like conflict or combat. And, to be honest, I’m a horrible actress and don’t do well under pressure. I’m much better in a research capacity.”

  “That’s totally understandable,” Abigail said.

  “You, on the other hand, are perfect for fieldwork. You’re smart, cool under pressure, can make decisions quickly, and you’re one of the more powerful witches around here. And you probably haven’t even come into your power fully yet. Add to that your talent of detecting magical residue—even if you can’t identify the witch who cast it—and you are the perfect choice for this mission.”

  “Yeah,” Abigail said, “except that I’m way too close to it. It’s my mother’s death we’re talking about. Sure, there are other crimes involved, but that’s the main one, as far as I’m concerned.”

  “The Council has decided to overlook that you are ‘emotionally invested’ in this. There simply isn’t anyone better able to do what we need.”

  Abigail sat silent for a moment, letting what Isabella said sink in. She was being given a chance to take part in this investigation, in this mission, to determine the identity of her mother’s murderer, all because of her seemingly insignificant t
alent. Okay, also because she’d had excellent success in other assignments, but mainly because of her minor ability.

  Magic was a strange thing. Different people had different gifts. Some were more attuned to one element or another—that affinity seemed to run in families—and individual strengths varied seemingly without any rhyme or reason. Then there were talents, abilities that were inherent to the magic user, not things that could be learned. Many witches and warlocks, most even, had no additional talent beyond the normal spell-casting that everyone else had.

  Everyone but the onlies, and skips.

  Talents, though, ranged from the small and trifling—like being able to smell colors—to very useful, like being able to launch fireballs from the fingertips without going through the motions and incantations to cast a spell. Abbie’s ability was to determine if magic had been used, the talent to sense magical residue. It wasn’t as refined as Isabella’s, which could identify the individual magic user, sort of like a fingerprint, but it would be useful during this mission.

  Isabella studied Abbie for a moment. “Abbie, it’s not an insult that you are getting this opportunity. Several other operatives have useful talents, but you were chosen. It’s just one of the factors. You have proven yourself one of the best and, frankly, that’s what we need for this mission. It’s a good thing.”

  Abbie sighed. “Oh, I know. Maybe I’m just a little wound up about the mission. I do realize it’s a privilege. I’ll do my best.”

  “I know you will.” The older witch smiled at Abigail. “So, to be clear, you are to search the house thoroughly, find the residue of magic use, and bring something back to me with magical residue on it. Your primary goal is to bring the item with the residue and to make sure that it is from Margaret Huntsman. I will then determine if it matches the magic that killed Olivia.

  “There may be other witches in the household. I can only compare the feel of the residue with others I have encountered, not come up with a witch’s name out of the blue. If what you bring back is from another magic-user, chances are I won’t be able to identify her, not having encountered the feel of it before. Any other information you are able to obtain will be valuable as well.”

  “I understand,” Abbie said. “Just as I understood the other four times we went over it.” She smiled at the other woman and winked to soften her words.

  “Yes. I’m sorry, but I just want to make sure we’re clear. We have been trying to get someone into the Huntsman Estate for years. Remember, for me to get a good read, the item had to have been in close proximity to the target of the magic or to have been the target itself. I would think if it is strong enough to trigger your talent, I should be able to trace it, but if given a choice, take the item with the strongest residue.

  “And Abbie, be careful. We have heard from a casual acquaintance of someone within the household that a woman disappeared less than a year ago, and it’s possible Margaret Huntsman had something to do with it. Do not put it past her to try to kill you if you are revealed.”

  “I’ll be careful,” Abbie said. “I always am. I’ll be extra careful this time, though, believe me.”

  Isabella pulled Abigail into a hug. It felt strange because the woman was not affectionate and they were not close. She must have been nervous about the level of danger in the mission.

  Abigail hugged her back and waited for the other woman to loosen her grip. It took a long time. Abbie wondered what Isabella hadn’t told her. Was this mission more dangerous than she thought? Was it some kind of suicide mission? Even if it was, she’d still do it. She could confirm the identity of her mother’s killer. That was worth risking her life for. Margaret Huntsman must pay for what she did, and aside from some rogue vigilante witch or warlock, the only way was to convince the Guiding Council beyond all doubt that Margaret was responsible for Olivia Henderson’s death. Then the Council would have to take action.

  When Isabella finally let go, Abbie squeezed her one last time and then stepped back.

  “Well, I better get going,” Abbie said. “Lots of things to do.”

  Abigail turned and left before an extended conversation stalled the start of her mission. She had a couple of hours to look over the file Isabella had given her, and she was anxious to get started, to find her mother’s killer.

  Chapter 7

  “I just don’t see why I shouldn’t be able to do this.” Benjamin Mason shook his head. His hair moved only a little—he liked to keep it short, with just enough length on top to make it look wind-blown if mussed. His strong jaw was set and his body tensed as if preparing for battle. In a way, he was.

  “Benjamin,” his mother said, “we have discussed this before. I will not allow you to work as a common laborer. What will people think of you, of our family? You are above such things. No Huntsman will ever perform menial tasks as long as I’m alive.”

  “I’m not a Huntsman,” he said. “I’m a Mason.”

  “You know what I mean,” Margaret said, her hazel eyes glinting, taking on a cast of red from the fire nearby. “It is…inappropriate.”

  “Mother,” Benjamin said, “it’s not like I’m planning to dig ditches. It’s sampling for environmental pollutants. My degree is in Environmental Chemistry. The work is in my field.” He tried to keep from sounding like he was whining.

  “Oh, Benjamin,” she said in a tone that one would use with an obstinate child. “I knew it was wrong to let you choose a major other than business. Your job, if you want to work, is to help run Huntsman Consolidated. That is your proper place. Mucking about with dirt and water and who knows what else is fine for other people, those without the wealth, power, and prestige that we—that you—have, but it is not a suitable occupation for us. I forbid it.”

  “Mother, I am twenty-six years old. I will take this job and do the work as long as I find it fulfilling. I have no interest in the family holdings. You are running the company just fine. There’s no need for me to get involved.”

  Ben’s mother shifted her gaze from him to her polished walnut desk. He could hear the leather of her chair creak as she turned her eyes toward her friend and business associate Helen Shapiro.

  The two women could not have been more different. At least six feet tall with bare feet, Helen towered over Margaret, and her muscular build emphasized Margaret’s slimness. With her short blonde hair, Helen honestly looked like one of the East German athletes he’d read about. The one thing both had in common was their presence, which was stronger than their actual physical appearance. They both gave him the sense they were fourteen feet tall.

  He didn’t like having this conversation in front of Helen, but she was his mother’s closest friend and almost a part of the family.

  Margaret’s eyes met Helen’s, and the world seemed to spin for a moment. He squeezed his own eyes shut and blinked several times. The feeling passed.

  “So,” Margaret said, “what do you think about this situation?”

  “I…I’m going to call Dr. Weitz and tell him I can’t take the job after all. It’s really not something someone of my standing should be considering, anyway.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Yes, that seems like the wise choice. I’m glad we had this talk, Benjamin. You look tired. You should probably go lie down and rest.”

  Ben turned his head slowly—the edges of his vision seemed to shimmer as he moved—and looked at Helen. She smiled at him. At least, she showed her teeth to him. The woman’s blocky face just didn’t wear smiles well. When he turned his gaze back to his mother, she was sitting there with her elbows on her desk, her hands steepled together in front of her, silent. When their eyes met, he felt pressure in his temples, as if he was developing a headache.

  “That sounds like a good idea,” he said, not sure if it was or not. “I feel like I might be getting a headache. Thank you for your time. I know you’re busy.”

  “I always have time for you, Benjamin. You’re my son. Now run along and get some rest.”

  Ben left, still not sure wha
t had happened to make him light-headed. He had to call Dr. Weitz, and then he needed to lie down. Maybe he was getting sick. He’d have to take it easy for the rest of the day, maybe take some vitamin C.

  Benjamin Mason made his way listlessly back to his sitting room. No—his rec room, or his playroom. Only his mother called it his sitting room. As he entered, he didn’t even pay attention to the pool table, foosball, the line of classic standalone arcade games, the big screen television/interactive gaming rig, or any of the other toys. He shuffled to the couch and allowed his body to fall onto it.

  “So, how’d it go?” Lucas King asked him. Ben’s head snapped around at the sound, making his vision swim; he had to close his eyes to push back nausea.

  He hadn’t even realized the man was there. Lucas was Ben’s driver and manservant, had been for almost ten years. He was as close to a friend as Benjamin Mason had, though he was careful never to call him that within earshot of his mother.

  “I…uh…I’m not really sure,” Ben said, squeezing his head with both hands to try to settle out the fuzz in it. “I think it went okay. I’m going to call Dr. Weitz and tell him I can’t take the job. It’s too menial for me.”

  Lucas’s dark eyes scanned Ben’s for a moment. His dark skin creased around his mouth in a smile and then smoothed as the edges of his mouth lowered.

  “Wait, what? You’re serious?” Lucas rose from the stuffed leather chair and sat on the loveseat across the table from Ben. “You were really excited about that job. You went to tell your mother you were going to take it and that she couldn’t do anything about it. Now you’ve decided not to take it, and yet you’re saying the discussion with your mother went well? It sounds like she convinced you to do exactly the opposite of what you were planning.”