Visions of the Witch - [Whispers 04]

by Tara West

  Ura could hardly believe the land dweller was standing before them, his expansive shoulders filling the room as he leaned against a wall for support. Ura could see pain in his strained features.

  “Ah, so he awakens.” Bane bowed before Markus, his skeletal arms splayed wide as if he was paying homage to a goddess. All the while, his eyes glowed with amusement. “The mighty being from above!”

  Ura paid Bane little heed for she could not take her eyes off Markus. He was not well and should rest, as she could easily defend herself against the likes of Bane.

  “Markus, go back to bed. Your head has not healed.”

  “I am healed enough to pound my fist through his face should he touch you again,” said Markus. His features were turned to stone, with the exception of his fiery gaze, which was locked on his adversary.

  Bane stood upright and casually shrugged his shoulders. “Very well, I will leave, but I will be back.” He flashed Ura a thin smile. “I do not trust you with this giant.”

  Ura heaved an exasperated breath as she watched Bane exit through the narrow opening, knowing he was off to tell his clan that he had been threatened. Bane would do his best to make Markus’ stay with her people unbearable.

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  Tara West

  A former Texas high school teacher, I enjoyed coaching the writing team and even the hectic deadlines that came with running the school publications. After taking a break to raise my baby girl, I now work from home as a novelist and a part-time graphic designer. In my spare time, I love to read, exercise and spend time with my family and friends.

  I would love to hear from my readers!

  Blog: tarawestauthor.wordpress.com

  Email: tara@tarawest.com

  Facebook: facebook.com/tarawestauthor

  Twitter: twitter.com/tarawestauthor

  Website: tarawest.com

  Books by Tara West

  From the Whispers Series

  Sophie’s Secret

  Don’t Tell Mother

  Krysta’s Curse

  Visions of the Witch

  From Keepers of the Stones

  Witch Flame, Prelude

  Curse of the Ice Dragon, Book One

  Spirit of the Sea Witch, Book Two (releasing 2013)

  The Temple

  An Excerpt

  Heather Marie Adkins

  Vale Avari has a mysterious past and a laundry list of super-powers, but that’s nothing compared to what she finds upon moving from small town U.S.A to even smaller-town England.

  A chance dart throw lands her in Quicksilver, an off-the-map place with a big problem — people are dying, and word is, it’s supernatural.

  At her new place of employment, a temple dedicated to the ancient Mother Goddess, Vale learns something even more shocking — women guards are disappearing at an alarmingly patterned rate; women who possess special gifts like her own.

  Supernatural powers aside, Vale isn’t ready to believe in the Wild Hunt as the culprit, and she’s determined to prove the deaths are acts of human violence.

  Plagued by a brute with a history of domestic violence and lusting after a dark-eyed man with a secret, Vale has a limited amount of time to discover the killer before he strikes again. In the process, she’ll learn things aren’t always what they seem and the supernatural might not be so extraordinary after all.

  The Hunt could ride for her.

  Chapter One

  My nails were still drying, shining like fresh blood in the evening light that filtered through the windows of my bedroom as I spread lotion on my legs. Cool air seeped through the ancient panes, raising goose bumps on my skin. The chill, damp English wind was wreaking havoc on my pores. I’d gone through almost an entire bottle of tea tree lotion since I’d stepped off the plane, and the lack of Bath and Body Works here meant I wouldn’t be replacing the bottle anytime soon.

  Downstairs in the kitchen, my clock radio played bad ‘90s rock between bouts of rambling British nonsense from a DJ who sounded as if he were speaking through a mouthful of cotton. It would take some getting used to, living in a foreign country: unfamiliar slang and people with accents so thick you could stab a knife through them. Anybody who ever said Brits spoke the same language as Americans was dreaming, or drunk. I swiped the last of the lotion onto my neck with a shiver.

  Adipiphine jumped on my bed with a little mewling purr and curled into the spot I had vacated a short time before; the indentation from my body was probably still warm. Her fluffy black form was a perfect oval on my cream-colored sheets as she licked contentedly at the fur sticking out from between the pads of one paw. I dropped a pat to her head, comforted by her presence. I’d gone through a bucket-load of trouble to get the fuzzy creature from Mississippi to England, but it was well worth it.

  I felt refreshed, having slept through the brightest hours of the day before capping it off with a long, hot shower. My landlord said the building was older than his parents (and he was no spring chicken himself), but the tub was brand new—just installed last year. It was a claw-foot, high-backed affair surrounded by a red plaid shower curtain that I would replace at some point with something more my style. The showerhead had a flow that rivaled the best waterfall, resulting in my reluctance to actually get out of the shower.

  It had taken almost a week to finally get over the jet lag. For days, I had barely left the house, choosing instead to doze on the couch in front of daytime television and manically paint the apartment during the night. When I did leave, mainly for groceries, it was always twenty minutes before the shops were to close, and I had to do a form of frenzied shopping that raised a few eyebrows. But now, I felt energized, standing in my very own apartment, with my very own furniture, ready to embark on my new employment venture—sketchy though it seemed.

  With just a thought, I sent the bottle of lotion in my hand sailing across the room and into the red wicker basket on my dresser. It clicked into place between a metal can of hair spray and a bottle of cheap, green hair gel. Squinting into the dim room, another thought had my hairbrush flying through the air and into my hand with a stinging slap.

  “Oww,” I groaned, switching hands and shaking out my injured palm.

  My name is Vale Avari, and I guess I forgot to mention I’m not exactly what one would consider normal.

  At three, I lifted my adoptive mother, Theresa, a foot in the air by wrapping my two stubby arms around one of her legs. According to her account of the story, I didn’t wobble once while I mumbled unintelligibly at her in delight. She just politely asked me to put her down and picked up the phone to call Dane, to share the revelation that their daughter was exhibiting signs of super-strength.

  The two of them have been steadfast enthusiasts since my powers began to surface. I know I’m lucky to have them—lucky because for every strange thing I did, they didn’t run screaming in the other direction, ripping out handfuls of hair and cursing the gods. Nothing short of fate could have brought me to them.

  A furry head butted my leg, and Addie yowled mournfully, as if she knew I was about to leave. I bent down and cupped her ebony head, scratching my thumbs behind her ears. She shut her eyes, her purr rumbling like a freight train. If the cat had her way, my thumbs would be permanently attached to her ears.

  Leaving Addie to her ecstasy, I pulled my brush through my hair. It was thick and black as the bowels of earth, and hung past my shoulder blades with a full fringe of bangs constantly in my mahogany eyes. I used my free hand to push back the curtain at my window and gazed out into the night. Dense forest spread behind my building, and the River Lee flowed just beyond the first line of trees, an incessant gurgling that could be heard when the sash was up. In the evenings, when it wasn’t obscured by clouds, the sun dipping into the horizon would set the river on fire.

  “I’m nervous,” I told Addie as I fingered the rough linen curtain. A slight breeze rocked the trees out back as if they were trying to bow t
o the earth in penance.

  Addie’s bright green eyes peered up at me, framed by pointy eyelashes. Why? the tilt of her head inquired.

  “Because I know nothing about this place or this job.”

  In my imagination, Addie used her scornful voice: You’re the idiot who accepted it without asking questions.

  I sighed, knowing I was talking to myself and that sort of thing usually preceded being locked up in the bin of crazies.

  I padded down the stairs in my bare feet, the wood floors cold. Addie slithered along behind me, the two of us passing through my living area with its well-worn couch and loveseat, the dark TV, and the maroon recliner spewing stuffing like an overcooked marshmallow. I’d purchased them all on the internet from various occupants of the English countryside, so none of the items matched. But they were comfy.

  My kitchen was tucked in the back, only a single counter with three mismatched bar stools separating it from the living room. I plucked the long, white envelope off the gray marble counter, and pulled out a sheet of paper I’d already read and re-read too many times. I shoved a spoon into the roll of cookie dough in my refrigerator and stuck it in my mouth, shut off the radio announcer mid-sentence, and unfolded the letter.

  I found it cryptic, my “call to arms”, so to speak. Welcome to England, Miss Avari! We are delighted you’ve chosen Quicksilver. We would like to offer you employment… A job offer…meet at a specific GPS location in plain clothes by nine p.m. Today. I’d received the letter the day I arrived, as if they’d been watching me—whoever they were. Dodgy, yes, but not all that out-of-the-ordinary to a girl who could bend steel and shatter plate-glass windows with her mind.

  According to Dane, I was being offered the job strictly because of my powers; my dad had connections all over the planet. I liked to attribute that to the fact he was a popular fantasy novelist, but probably it was because he was some kind of dark overlord in the earth’s underbelly. Either one was equally possible.

  I pondered the peculiar letter for the twentieth time. I tossed the message on the kitchen counter and shoved its contents to the back of my mind once again as I leaned my hip on the sink beneath the kitchen window. My dad wouldn’t steer me wrong.

  I took my time savoring the cookie dough, sweet and salty on my tongue, with Addie’s petite body rubbing my ankles adoringly. The moon shone like a lantern through the small window over the sink, an arc of white soaring just above the tree line. Closing my eyes, I reveled in the silence of my new home—my own home. Nobody here to keep me from pattering around in my lacy bits, to warn me off eating raw cookie dough, or to flip on the lights when all I wanted was darkness.

  The phone rang, and I dropped my spoon—licked clean—into the sink before answering, “Yeah?”

  “Vale? It’s Theresa. How you getting on, sweetie?”

  As usual, her chirpy, maternal voice brought a smile to my face. The woman always knew just when to call.

  “Good. Homesick, but settling in. It’s really pretty here, if a little overboard on the freezing rain.” Bending down, I cradled my cat’s body in my arms and the phone between my shoulder and ear before I headed back upstairs to get dressed.

  “How’s the apartment? Did Dane do you good? He sent you an email last night with some names and numbers of friends he has there. In case you need anything.” She paused, then added, “Like a home-cooked meal.”

  She just had to go there. I dropped Addie on the soft down comforter crumpled on the bed before answering. “He has friends everywhere, and I’m perfectly capable of feeding myself.”

  My father had told me he’d never been to Quicksilver before—but it was his “friend” who got me the place. I glanced around my townhouse: all windows and vibrant colors. I stood in the loft-style bedroom, the balcony overlooking the dark living room to my left.

  “Cookie dough and tuna sandwiches do not cover the four basic food groups,” my mother chastised gently.

  “I start work tonight,” I told her, attempting to steer the conversation away from my controversial eating habits and into successful territory. I rifled through my dresser for a tank top.

  Theresa drew in a breath. “It makes me nervous you know, you being out there alone. You don’t know anything about this job.”

  “You should know me better by now,” I said with a laugh, choosing a lacy camisole and sniffing it for foul odors. “I’m definitely cut out for security.”

  She was silent for a moment. Over the phone, I could hear the clink of dishes accompanied by splashing water. “You could have at least gone for a real law enforcement position instead of this…whatever it is. Your grandfather was a police officer, you know.”

  “How’s Macy? Is she doing okay with classes?” I asked, smoothly changing subjects once again. It’s an art form with my mother. The police officer conversation had been revisited a few times since I graduated high school.

  Macy, Theresa and Dane’s biological daughter, was born four years after I came to live with them, and she’s the light to my dark. Short and elfish with golden blonde hair and piercing green eyes, she was a miniature Theresa with her daddy’s smile and the kind of curvy body that went out of style years ago. I took to the role of big sister with reckless abandon and have happily ended up with a lifelong partner in crime. My oddities were already a daily occurrence before Macy, so when I could set the table at age nine without lifting a finger, it was just less work for her.

  “She’s good, I think. She loves her feminist literature professor, but I don’t think she cares for her biology teacher. She says he’s very chauvinistic, and you know how your sister is. Oh!” Theresa lowered her voice. I could picture her cupping her mouth and the receiver—like a teenager telling secrets. I bet she probably soaked the phone in dishwater. Wouldn’t have been the first time. “She brought a girl home for dinner last night.”

  “That’s great! What was she like?” I’d only met one of Macy’s girlfriends before. It’d taken her a long time to finally come out, which was funny considering Dane and Theresa’s love-all, be-all hippie open-mindedness.

  “A lovely, lovely girl named Amy,” Theresa answered with a sigh. I could picture her standing over the sink, hand-washing the dishes she was going to put into the dishwasher. She’d be wearing the frilly pink apron Dane bought her for their fifteenth anniversary over a billowy, ankle-length skirt and sheer peasant blouse. The apron read Don’t anger the cook, she has access to household poisons. It was my favorite. “She had pretty brown hair chopped right about her chin, and just the biggest, darkest eyes. A little like yours, dear. And she wore a dress! A pretty flowered thing, like what your sister likes to wear.”

  “Keep me posted on the Amy front, Mom,” I said, “but I’ve gotta get ready for work.” I knew if I didn’t cut the conversation off now, I’d hear all about who Amy’s parents were and what they did for a living. I told my mom I loved her and hung up, tossing the cordless on the bed where it would lose its charge before I remembered to put it back on the base. Addie glared at me when it bounced twice and came to rest against her. She shuffled sideways, dripping disdain.

  I settled on a pair of stone-washed jeans and a black tank top with gray Nikes. Thudding back downstairs to the kitchen, I tossed together a turkey sandwich—bypassing the cupboard full of tuna on principle—and opened a can of fish innards for Addie. She mewed girlishly, rubbing my ankles before digging in. We ate in silence side by side.

  The forecast had been for a cold night, so I threw on a black zip-up hoodie and a black-and-gold University of Southern Mississippi beanie. Locking the door to my apartment—or “flat” in British-speak, as I’d learned—in the cool night air, I took a deep breath and smelled peace.

  It was an inky night. The sky glittered with the frost of a thousand stars, and the moon hid behind a gargantuan cloud. So far out in the country, the town of Quicksilver didn’t have many streetlights, and what few they did have lined the main street through what was considered “city center.” My apartment co
mplex was a two-story brick building of six side-by-side units, about a fifteen-minute drive from town proper. The only other civilization nearby was another set of apartments across the street and the occasional farmhouse set off the road between here and High Street.

  I’d purchased a tiny black Mini Cooper—the kind that looked stylish but would mean certain death in a battle with an SUV. Luckily the Brits were unlike Americans, who thirsted for “bigger is better”. Not one Ford Heavy-Duty or Hummer in my neighborhood. I loved how I towered over the short car and could look down into the sunroof, yet once inside, it was spacey and chic.

  Not that I cared about chic, of course. Don’t tell anybody.

  I clicked the button on my key-chain to unlock the doors and slid inside.

  It still smelled like new car. I’d only driven it twice since bringing it home a week before. The engine barely made a sound when I turned it over, backed out of the lot, and took a right on to the street. I shifted easily for someone who’d only just recently learned how to handle a manual transmission, and I wasn’t as freaked about being on the wrong side of the road as I had been the first time. I even only took a roundabout the wrong way once, though that meant a 50% failure rate which, when I looked at it that way, was pretty sad.

  I traveled the empty stretch of highway that led to city center and passed through town. Quicksilver was sleeping. High Street was devoid of any sign of life; no lights on in the stores, no people walking, and no cars parked on the sides of the street. I passed the bakery and pub, my favorite little grocery with the bright purple awning, and a couple of antique and clothing stores, all with locked doors and “closed” signs. The road itself was a study in disaster, rutted with holes that shook my car as I passed over them.

  My headlights illuminated street after empty street as I avidly followed each turn barked out by Lucy—the trusty GPS with a saucy Australian accent—on the way out of town. A sharp left turned the car toward a wall of trees, where the road became narrow and even more roughly paved. Within a minute, the Mini was creeping down a dirt road, the arc of its headlights hitting nothing but inky forest all around me.