by Gwen Knight
Priscilla cringed, hunching in her shoulders and wishing she could curl into a tiny, invisible ball of nothing. Shame twisted her gut into knots. She stared down at her trembling hands, not daring to defend what she’d done. It was beyond the pale.
“Well? Do you have anything to say for yourself?”
“I-I’m sorry,” she whispered. “It won’t ever happen again.”
The dean stood. “Your next transgression, however slight, will result in immediate expulsion. I don’t care if your mother was one of our most distinguished graduates. And I don’t care if your parents make another substantial donation to WCS or not. One more scandal, and you’re out.”
She scrambled to her feet. “Thank you,” she mumbled, eyes on the plush, green carpeting. Her feet made no sound on the expensive flooring as she beat a hasty exit. She closed the heavy, mahogany door behind her, still blinking back tears.
She had yet to walk the gauntlet, a hallway lined with administrative staff at their desks. Priscilla stiffened her shoulders and breathed in deeply. Best to get it over with and walk down the hall of shame. Once out of the building, she could let the tears flow. Not now. Eyes focused straight ahead, she strode past the workers, chin held high.
Would this stigma follow her the rest of her college years? Bad enough that she was plain, currently friendless, and socially awkward. No, that wasn’t torture enough. Now she was also the idiot who almost got sucked under the spell of a crazy girl.
At last, she made it to the elevator. But that escape route wasn’t near fast enough. Instead, Priscilla opened a side door and bolted down the empty stairwell. Her eyes swam and the concrete steps blurred. She clutched the steel railing to keep her balance and descended one step at a time.
Outside, the cold November air slapped her face and sent her long, frizzy hair whipping in the wind. The tears on her cheeks burned like icicles. A few students scurried past, shooting her curious looks. Sunglasses could hide her red, puffy eyes from further scrutiny. She stopped abruptly and fumbled with the clasp on her purse.
Oomph.
A heavy weight slammed into her back and she stumbled on the icy sidewalk. Warm, strong hands clamped onto her elbow.
“Sorry. You okay?’ came a deep, baritone voice.
Oh, hell. She knew that voice. Breck Thayer, the quiet, yet hot, librarian that she’d been crushing on for weeks. His magic was strong, it pulsed through the thick layer of her wool coat. Not surprising. Every time she neared him, his aura crackled with energy. Though she didn’t possess any magic, she sensed it in others. Fat lot of good that did if she couldn’t also discern if the power was black or white.
“I’m fine,” she muttered, pulling away from his support and avoiding eye contact.
“Priscilla?”
There was no hope for it. She’d have to face him with red eyes, blotchy skin and a wild tangle of hair. This was so not her day.
She pasted on a fake grin and met his gaze. “Hi Breck. Thanks for saving me from a fall.”
“I’m the one who knocked you off balance,” he said drily. He narrowed gray eyes that were smoky and sexy. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Allergies...” she answered with a vague swipe of her hand.
“You’ve been crying.”
“No. I wasn’t... I’m not...” a betraying hiccup hitched her breath.
“That does it.” He took her arm and scanned the school courtyard. “This way,” he said, guiding her toward a bench.
It was located between two buildings, blocking the strong wind gusts. Not comfortable, but tolerable. She let him lead her to it then sat beside him. Breck’s tall, lean body was warm and sheltering.
“Tell me what’s wrong,” he demanded.
“I’ve been in a bit of trouble,” she mumbled into the collar of her wool coat.
“So I’ve heard.”
Her head snapped up. “You have?”
His mouth twisted and the smoky eyes hardened like chips of ice. “That Bridget and Rebecca clique got you in trouble.”
She shouldn’t be surprised he’d caught wind of the scandal. “Dean Rushmore just dragged me through the coals. Said that next offense, I’m out of here. Expelled.”
“There won’t be a next time,” Breck said confidently. “Those other girls were a bad influence. You were too good for them. I couldn’t help but notice the way they put you down all the time. They treated you like crap.”
“I see that now,” she said softly. “I was a fool. So desperate to be their friend that I went along with... everything.”
“But you stopped. You drew a line. And in the end, you did the right thing.”
His kindness undid her and hot tears flowed like lava over her cheeks. Who could have known that their coven leader was secretly a nut job? She’d been tagging along with the coven, as usual, when the Halloween circle meet in the woods had turned disastrous. And her hot librarian dream guy knew all about the mess.
“Hey.” He cupped her chin with his palm. “Don’t be so hard on yourself.”
“You’re so kind,” she blurted. “And the only one that’s been nice to me at this place.”
He never made her feel ugly or stupid like everyone else, especially her former coven mates. Wrong coven, wrong friends.
“Anyone that loves the Romantic period poets can’t be all bad.”
Priscilla blushed, remembering the first time they’d met. She’d checked out a book on Lord Byron and when he’d seen the title at the circulation desk, his eyes had lit with interest. “For a term paper?” he’d asked, lifting a brow.
“No, I just love his poems.”
The slow smile he gave her was anything but reserved and bookish. Ever since, she’d made a point of going to the library once a week to check out Romantic period poets—Lord Tennyson, Wordsworth, Keats, and Shelley.
“Thank you,” she said, swiping away her tears.
“I think you need a hot lunch and a friend to talk to,” he said. “Everything’s better after a good meal and good conversation. Let’s go to a deli in town.”
“No.” She shook her head vigorously back and forth. Any other time she’d have jumped on the offer, but not now. “I’m a mess.”
He canted his head to the side. “Tell you what. If you don’t mind something simple like bread and beef stew, we can eat at my apartment.”
Priscilla hesitated. She’d been longing for an opportunity to get to know Breck, but her emotions were all over the place and she was conscious of her red eyes and nose and messy hair. Hardly the way she’d have prepared for a first date.
“C’mon.” He stood and held out a hand. “It’ll make you feel better. I promise.”
As if she could say no. Breck wasn’t the kind of guy that other girls would swoon over, but there was a sexy intentness and mysterious aura about him that drew Priscilla. And he’d never looked more irresistible to her than this very moment.
She took his hand.
***
His modest apartment downtown was above a tarot reading shop. She followed him up the stairs and entered Breck’s place, curious what it would reveal about him.
A large open room with wooden floors and tall windows created a loft vibe. A shabby oriental rug anchored the space, and large wooden bookcases lined both side walls. The leather furniture was worn, but looked comfortable.
“I love all the books!” Priscilla went to one of the bookcases and walked along the side of the room, her left index finger skimming titles.
“Knew you would,” he said. “Kick back while I warm up the bread and stew.”
She slipped out of her shoes and stood by one of the windows, watching the snow fall. Soon, the scent of soup wafted toward her. It felt damn good to be here, away from prying eyes, and in a place that felt like a real home—so different from the noisy, crowded dorm. Priscilla closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against the cool windowpane.
He returned from the kitchen and stood beside her, watching as Salem became blanketed
with a fresh layer of snow.
Priscilla slipped him a covert glance. The sudden intimacy between them set her skin tingling. Magical, yes. But some of it was due to the way he set her hormones into overdrive. Okay, a lot of it.
“Better check the stew and start the bread,” he said abruptly. “Be back in a minute.”
Priscilla went to the den, intending to look at more of his books. She passed by his desk, walked a few feet and then abruptly stopped. An awareness niggled at the back of her mind. Something on his desk had looked familiar...
She backtracked.
Small strips of notebook paper in a bold, dramatic handwriting littered the desk’s surface.
Her own handwriting.
Priscilla leaned in closer. Love will find a way where wolves fear to prey, she read on the first slip. Her heart skittered. Breck had found the messages she’d tucked into the college’s library books. For the past few weeks, she’d written down bits and pieces of her favorite lines from Lord Byron and left them in some of the Romantic Poetry tomes. She’d had some fanciful notion of finding someone who shared her sentiments.
“Be thou the rainbow in the storms of life,” she read aloud. The evening beam...”
“—that smiles the clouds away and tints tomorrow with prophetic ray,” Breck said, coming up behind her.
She whirled around to face him, her face scarlet. How had he known?
“You are the one who wrote these quotes, right?” he asked, a teasing smile in his pewter eyes.
“Would you believe me if I said no?” she asked hopefully.
“Not at all.”
She put her hands to her face. “You must think I’m a nitwit.”
Breck’s warm breath fanned heat at the top of her scalp and she was pulled into his warm embrace.
“I think you’re romantic and sweet.”
His lips found hers. The kiss was slow and tender—until it wasn’t. Until their tongues danced and the taste and heat of his mouth wiped out all remembrance of her unhappiness at school. Until all thought was consumed by an aching need to feel Breck’s body against her own.
He pulled away and cupped her face in his hands. “You’re beautiful,” he whispered.
No one had ever told her that before. She hadn’t even known how much she’d craved to hear the words. But a sudden worry assailed her. Was he planning to use her like the girls at school had done? Like every other guy who’d ever made advances at her?
“Why would you say that?” she asked coldly. Don’t be stupid. Again. This could all be a ruse, a spell, a bewitchment of sorts.
He quirked a brow. “Because you love poetry and because you seem to believe the best of people until they prove you wrong.” He brushed a lock of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear. “How’s that for starters?”
“That sounds about perfect,” she breathed. Too perfect? She hesitated, torn between suspicion and the desire to again taste his kiss. Passion trumped logic and she stepped back into his embrace. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her lips against his.
Again, Breck pulled away.
“What’s wrong?” she asked. Had he sensed her confusion?
“I think I need to take you home immediately after lunch.” His voice was gruff as he set her aside.
“Was it something I said?”
Surprise widened his eyes. “Of course not. It’s just...you’re special, Priscilla. Only you don’t realize it yet.” He took her hand and kissed it. “All of this,” he said, waving a finger between their bodies, “can wait.”
Breck bent his head and leaned into her. Their foreheads rested against one another, their breaths mingling.
A phone trilled from behind, shattering her absorption in the moment, buzzing on a wooden shelf like an angry hornet preparing to sting. Gingerly, she picked it up to give Breck.
Salem Psychiatric Hospital flashed on the screen.
Chill bumps prickled her arms and her throat constricted. No! That’s where she had been sent. The high priestess with the low magic—born by fire in the hell of madness.
Guilt glimmered in his eyes. Magic crackled like a thunder between them.
“You know her.” Priscilla sidestepped out of his reach. “You’re connected to the coven.”
Breck shut off the phone and tossed it on the sofa. “There is no more coven. It’s over.”
The hell it was. Would she never be free of her past?
“Who are you, really?” she demanded.
All the sweet words, the flattery, the poetic claptrap, the kisses and touching concern—all burned off in the haze of an unanswered call.
“She’s my sister,” he admitted. “My disturbed, sick, crazy little sister.”
The air pressed in around her and Priscilla rubbed her temples to clear her mind. Get out. Get away from Breck.
She grabbed her purse and scrambled to the door, desperate to feel the cold air on her face, a bracing wind to waken her from an ever-recurring nightmare.
“Wait,” he called out. “It’s not what you think.”
Breck caught up to her, tugged at her arm. Priscilla jerked it back to her side. “Stay away from me.”
“I mean you no harm.”
“As if you, your sister, or anyone else in that coven ever obeyed the creed of as long as ye harm none.” She bit down on the inside of her mouth. “I bet you and the others had a good time laughing at me over the poetry notes. Poor, pitiful, gullible Priscilla. Always good for a laugh.”
“They know nothing about it. That’s between you and me.”
Priscilla grabbed her coat and shoved her arms into it. “Leave me alone. I mean it.”
Breck grudgingly took a step back and raised his hands, palms in the air. “Let me at least give you a ride home.”
“I’ll get a cab.” With that she jerked open the front door and hurried back down the steps and into the crisp air.
People scurried in and out of the many occult shops, snow dusting their hair and shoulders. The Halloween tourist rush was over. Thank the goddess for that. But Samhain was permanently ruined for her. She could only hope the horror over the last Halloween would ease to a mere dull throb over the years. Because she would never, ever forget what she’d been caught up in.
Mindlessly, she roamed Derby Square, idly glancing in psychic shop windows lit with candles. A few radiated magic through the frozen window panes. Most did not.
She walked until her legs ached and her mind calmed. A bitter smile tugged the corners of her mouth. Figures I’d fall for the wrong guy. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
It’s not what you think. His voice echoed in her mind. What if Breck was the real deal? He wasn’t his sister’s keeper, just as she was nothing like her haughty parents who thought money solved all problems.
A lone, white feather danced in the snowflakes, spiraling down to the tip of her brown boots. Reverently, she bent to pick it up and examined it at eye level.
“Well, what do you know?” she whispered in awe.
Magic swirled over her body, snapping and crackling like an electrical current. Did it signal trouble or a blessing? Priscilla slowly turned. “Following me?”
Breck shrugged. “So shoot me. Just wanted to make sure you were okay.” He nodded at the feather. “A good omen, right?”
She twirled it between her fingers and softly blew on it, like a child playing with a pinwheel. The feathers ripped delicately from her warm breath. Good, indeed. It represented protection and hope—a blessing from the moon.
“I’m ready to talk now,” she conceded.
“Thank you,” he said, holding out a hand.
For the second time today, she took it.
Debbie Herbert writes paranormal romance novels reflecting her belief that love, like magic, casts its own spell of enchantment. She is traditionally published through Harlequin, as well as Indie published. Married and living in Alabama, she roots for the Crimson Tide football team (Roll Tide!). Debbie enjoys recumbent bicycling and jet skiin
g with her husband. She has two grown sons and the oldest has autism. Characters with autism frequently land in her works, even when she doesn't plan on it!
For more information, and to sign up for her newsletter, visit www.debbieherbert.com.
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Map of Bones by Erzabet Bishop
A Curse Worker Short
Something’s written in the bones…
Merryn is a student at the Montelier College of Witchcraft and Arcane Sciences. Struggling to balance her course load and her part time job, she almost forgets her notes in the lab. But, wandering the halls after hours may hold some unforeseen consequences. Only the wicked walk the streets of Salem after dark, and Merryn might find more than she ever suspected.
Beauty is in the eyes of the beholder…
Damien is a lust demon caught in a dilemma. His favor is being called in and he’s trapped in Broomstix with the sexiest bookworm alive. When she flees into his arms after a terrible scare, can he make her see him and not the demon inside? There is a lesson to be learned and he is just the one to teach her that life isn’t just lived by books alone.
Map of Bones by Erzabet Bishop
A Curse Worker Short
Chapter One
“You know, if you stay like that long enough, one of the boys is going to think you’re one of the mail room owls.” Cynthia twirled her long black hair around her finger and smirked. She smoothed her hands down her sweater and snagged her tablet off the desk.
Merryn ruffled her feathers and transformed back to human form, a scowl on her lips. “Bitch. This isn’t Hogwarts.”
Cynthia shrugged, picking up her books. “I only speak the truth. Come on. Professor Jenkins doesn’t care if you transform twenty times. If you can’t do it in front of the class next Tuesday for the exam, you’re toast.”
“I know…” Merryn sighed. “Why didn’t I go to a college with a normal curriculum? What’s so bad about accounting? Or even a business class?”
