by Ruby Raine
The engine roared to life.
Distance.
Or air to breathe.
There wasn’t enough of either just now.
RILEY AWAKENED TO A groggy head and a throbbing ache in his temples. Molasses fluttered in and out as lids pried themselves open. Foreign surroundings. And bright. Far, far too bright. What in the holy hell happened and where on earth was he?
He groaned, rolling to his side. Blinking. Clearing the fog out of his eyes. It only made things brighter and more painful. After a minute, it subsided some, things getting clearer. He had drunk quite a bit last night, but this felt...
Oh, right. He’d gotten plastered in that pub outside Sorcier after his unasked for psychic reading with Aunt May, and had proceeded to flirt with a young woman and get pummeled in a fight with her boyfriend; a pro-wrestler wannabe over twice Riley’s size.
Last memories:
Head hitting pavement.
Breath knocked out of him.
An asskicker boot lifting off the ground to crush his skull.
Presumptuous footsteps clopping out of the shadows behind pro-wrestler wannabe.
Riley waiting for the boot blow. Pain, he deserved.
It never came. Only blackness, consuming him.
He sucked in. Alive and conscious, wasn’t he? But everything was so bright. A halo of hazy white. Oh fucking funeral bells! Had he died? Had pro-wrestler shit-kicked him straight to wherever he was headed after life?
Heaven. Hell. Nothing?
What waited?
He blinked a few more times, his vision clearing.
There was a glass of water and two aspirin sitting on a nightstand next to the bed.
Somehow, he didn’t think heaven or hell had this kind of service.
He must have survived.
He sat up with a groan. Stretched his face. It hurt like a son of a bitch, but he’d heal. Didn’t feel like any permanent damage had been done. He breathed out the throb, grasping at the aspirin and water. Downing both. It was room temperature, had been sitting there for a few hours, easily.
He swung his feet over the side of the bed he was laid out on.
“Where the hell am I?”
He got to his feet and steadied himself. There was a mirror hanging on the wall. He tiptoed over to sneak a look at the damage. He held back the gasp. Black eye. Swollen lip. Small cut on his chin. But someone had cleaned him up. He was still dressed, minus his jacket and shoes.
Cautiously and quietly, he opened the door to his unfamiliar bedroom and peeked out, saw nothing but more bright light. His eyes adjusted to the sunshine and upon closer inspection, took in the posh surroundings. Clean, open space. Luscious greenery growing from floor to ceiling; high ceilings. He was upstairs, he realized with a dry, hard swallow.
It didn’t vibe out as bad, or unfriendly, but he didn’t like not knowing where the hell he was. Too bad he couldn’t order his gift to work on demand and tell him if he was safe here. Not that it really worked like that anyway. And there was always a chance he was still knocked out and this was all just a dream.
Fat chance.
He opened the door and stepped out, expecting someone to pounce on him, or say something. He listened... voices, but they were outside. People walking by, he guessed. He was in a city he imagined, most likely still in New Orleans based on the architecture in the home. In the colony, or outside the colony? He had no clue.
Riley tested a few steps, peering anxiously from side to side, making his way down the stairs. No one. The only sounds from outside. He went for the front door then remembered his shoes. They were nowhere in sight and he didn’t feel like snooping. They were only shoes. He’d get new ones. It was much more important to get the hell outta dodge.
A jacket lying over the back of a kitchen chair. Damn, not his.
He crept over to take a look anyway. If he was lucky, there might be something in the jacket to tell him whose house he had slept in. He rifled through the pockets until locating a folded piece of notepaper. He wasn’t quite sure he dared look at it; felt a bit like violating someone’s personal space, but he needed to find out where he was.
He glanced, but it had no address on it. It looked to be a handwritten letter.
William.
My longest friend in this world. I write this letter in case things tonight go badly and I don’t have the chance to speak with you in person. I cannot shake this feeling that I’m living on borrowed time.
First, I must thank you on behalf of Catherine and myself, for looking out for our children after our sudden departure from your lives. I cannot express what your presence in their lives means to me. You have kept them alive, and seen them through difficult times, and for this, I am forever grateful.
Second, there is something that has become painfully obvious to me in my short hours back on the Isle. And there is something I must ask of you, William.
A terrible thing. Nothing I ever dreamed in a million years I would find myself asking of you. It hurts more than words can express, to do so.
I must ask you to leave The Demon Isle...
Not forever. Just for a time. Weeks. Months, perhaps. Until my children realize they can stand on their own feet, and fully understand all you do for them, and that they can do these things for themselves.
You were right, my friend! I coddled them too much. Let them rely on Catherine and I, and you, rather than push them into the life they needed to be prepared for. I always thought I had more time.
My biggest mistake, and regret.
They are well on their way, they simply need a push. But not from you.
Consider my request a long overdue vacation. Visit with your other family. I’m sure they miss you and we’ve stolen your services for far too long. I’m sure you’ll know when it’s right to return to the Isle.
Forever grateful, and always in your debt,
Jack Howard.
Riley dropped the letter, his brain mired in confusion. This was making less and less sense.
“Hasn’t anyone ever told you, it’s impolite to read other people’s letters?”
Riley inhaled sharply. “What the hell?” His body spun, instantly aware and alert as he searched for the face who matched that voice. Something had to be wrong with his hearing because this was impossible.
He was in New Orleans. Not on The Demon Isle.
Wasn’t he?
Vocal chords failed him.
Lungs burned, not nearly enough oxygen making it deep enough for them to function properly. His heart pounded hard, blood rushing to keep up as the vampire he’d tortured mercilessly for an entire night, stepped out into the open with a growl.
“Hello, Riley...”
William Wakefield’s emerald eyes flashed deadly, the corner of his mouth upturning in a presumptuous grin.
Riley’s gaze shifted right and left.
It was useless. He could not outrun a vampire...
WICKED GOOD WITCHES BOOK 9
Witch Unraveled: The Dark is Calling
Supernatural Protectors: A Legacy of Magic
A LONG TIME AGO ON an island not so far away...
The battle was only beginning and expected to last throughout the night.
Young witches in training; seven young men and two young women. The first time women had joined in with battle training, which had been a battle in and of itself. Most fathers refused their daughters into this training thinking it far too barbaric and dangerous. The womenfolk were best at home preparing gardens, cooking up potions, and learning from their mothers how to raise magical children.
Not a task to be taken lightly, and most women were okay with this as raising a household kept them busy enough already. And most had no desire to fight. Although all agreed to the fact that danger was equally capable of finding them as their trained male counterparts. So many of them did learn basic magical defenses, but when it came to planned battles, or potentially dangerous patrols of the Isle, or defending the Isle when attacked, this was the f
irst time two women had been involved.
At almost twenty-three years old, Lisbeth Eugenia Deane scoffed at the idea of being a stay-at-home witch. And thank the heavens so did her father. She often surmised this was something to do with her being an only child and growing up without a mother. Sadly, she died just days after delivering, due to delayed complications of childbirth. A tragedy that struck just as many witches as human women, in the day. Magic couldn’t fix everything.
Regardless, Lisbeth’s father was proud to have a daughter tough enough to fight right alongside the men. When he was gone from this world, she’d be able to protect herself. And to Lisbeth’s delight, her friend Charlotte Howard had talked her father into allowing her into the training as well.
Lisbeth wondered whether the man had approved at all, or if Charlotte in her impatience had bewitched him into agreeing. It would not have surprised Lisbeth at all to discover this. At twenty-four, Charlotte was already far more talented than most witches twice her age. Her thirst for knowledge drove her to take risks Lisbeth would never dream of taking.
And tonight, after months of training, they were participating in a mock battle.
Against older, much more battle-practiced witches.
This is the way it had been done for years, and one day, she intended to be a trainer or teacher. She’d be the first woman to do so. But before that was a possibility she had to make it through this night. And the males were not cooperating, not that they ever did.
They were mostly younger, in their late teens, but Lisbeth had spent a couple of years campaigning just to get into the training. During which the men mainly ignored her, unwilling to work alongside a woman. One, out of fear they might hurt her, and two, none of them believed she was strong enough to equal them in the field of action. With the exception of Mathew Bishop, the eldest young man in the group, a year older than Lisbeth.
A wiry, taller young man who was uncommonly kind, though not a very talented witch when it came to using magic, or fighting, and someone who could barely get out of his own way and usually caused more trouble than helped. Where he lacked in magical prowess, he made up for with loyalty and good old common sense. Which to Mathew meant if trouble came, get out of the way and let another witch handle it. It wasn’t that he was afraid, just realistic of his general ability to muck things up when they were in a pickle. And an overall awareness that his getting out of the way, was best for self-preservation and the protection of all.
He was a transplant to the Isle. He’d come as a young lad with his father after his mother had died; they’d been a lone family of witches. A difficult thing to be in these crazy times. It was a Howard Witch who’d first come across the Bishop family living on the mainland and offered them a safer home on the Isle. It was too bad this chance meeting had taken place after the attack that claimed the life of Mathew’s mother.
And here they were now, Lisbeth, Charlotte, and Mathew, a mix-matched team of witches attempting to get from point A, to point B, without getting knocked out. They had to use the skills learned these last months to dodge their attackers and not get stunned by their spells. They were allowed to use magic to defend themselves only, not attack their trainers in return. The goal, to learn to defend themselves in the heat of the moment. If they did get stunned and woke up with enough time before daylight, they were expected to keep going and try again.
It wasn’t really a pass or fail kind of test being that training as a witch continued from childhood to death, all through a witch’s life. However, getting to the destination without getting knocked out definitely had its benefits and earned great respect from the elders of the community. The ones who would choose future trainers, or call upon you to fight, or protect, if the need arose.
The mock battle was not a group effort on behalf of the students. But neither did anyone attempt to sabotage another student. It was simply a test of the knowledge he or she had picked up during training. An assessment to test strengths and weaknesses. This didn’t mean that students didn’t work together like Lisbeth, Charlotte, and Mathew. Actually, Lisbeth would not have been surprised to find all the others working together, just as long as they didn’t have to work alongside the girls, or the guy they considered no better than.
Almost on cue, Mathew tripped over his own feet. Lisbeth cupped his mouth to keep him quiet and helped him before he landed too hard. Charlotte shot a silent but ill-tempered glare in their direction. She was not thrilled with this pairing at all. But Lisbeth refused to let Mathew go off by himself. Who knows what would happen! If it were possible to get lost on an island, Mathew would figure out how. Which in her eyes, for some reason she never quite understood, made him even more lovable. He kept things from getting boring, and she liked that. Plus, he was her best friend and never held it against her she was a girl.
She got him steady on his feet and encouraged him onward. The poor lad looked paler than normal in the streak of moonlight sneaking down into the trees. Charlotte kept watch while they caught up with her.
“Sorry,” he apologized, his voice muted. “I can’t figure out why my father insists on me doing this.” He was clearly miserable. It was his second year in training, having escaped it the years before with one excuse or another, until he’d run out of them.
“It’s good practice,” Charlotte returned in hushed rebuke. “Now pick up the pace before I leave you both.”
Lisbeth rolled her eyes. Good old Charlotte. One thing she would never learn... patience.
“It’s okay, Mathew,” encouraged Lisbeth. “You’re going to make it to the end. As long as you stick with me at least.” A silent snub to Charlotte. She’d been harder to be around lately. Their friendship strained as Charlotte’s focus on magical training started to overtake everything else in her life. Including lifelong friendships. She was dedicated, Lisbeth owed her friend that at least. As a Howard, it was required. Perhaps that’s why Charlotte worked so hard. The added pressure of being a Howard versus a Deane might definitely push any witch over the edge.
There was a scrambling thump behind them. Lisbeth spun, palm at the ready. Only to lower it and shake her head. Mathew really was slowing them down at this point. And now he’d fallen over an obvious jutting tree root.
“That’s it!” bleated Charlotte as loudly as she dared. “I’m gone. I suggest you do the same Lisbeth before the imbecile takes you down with him!” A moment later she’d disappeared into the shadows, her light steps no longer heard.
Lisbeth backtracked to help him up.
“She’s right,” Matthew lamented. “You really should leave me. I’m not cut out for this. If I’m lucky, after tonight my father will finally understand and give up. I’d swear it’s because I’m an only child. Last boy in the family and all that.”
“He just wants what’s best for you, and for you to be able to protect yourself, or your future family should the need arise, Mathew.” He flinched at this idea. “Now how bad is your leg?” She pointed at where he was massaging his ankle.
Flashes of light and shouts sent them both flying to the ground. Lisbeth shoved him to the crevice of a fallen log for cover and tucked herself in too. One of the other students was running full speed not far away, a trainer on his trail.
Lisbeth and Mathew stayed still and silent. In no hurry. They had all night and would not move until she was sure the coast was clear. Poor Mathew. Already injured and they’d barely begun. Her heart ached for her friend. He tried so hard, but he was right when he said he wasn’t cut out for battles. No matter how loyal or dear a friend, he hated being here. Just as she was pressured to do the witchy womanly duties, he was pressured to do what all other men did. Neither fit into their presumed roles well.
“So how’s the ankle?” she asked when the chaos has passed and it was safe to speak again.
“Hurts, but I think I can walk.” She helped him to his feet but he flinched, winced, and hobbled. “Okay. So no walking yet.”
Lisbeth let him sink back down to the ground. Carry
ing him was not an option, even as wiry as he was. He had filled out some in recent months though, and she had no doubt he’d come into himself one day. Just a little later than most. His sweet heart alone had to be worth a lot.
He tried to put pressure on his foot, but still no better.
“That’s it,” he exclaimed in a whisper. “I’m demanding you go on. It’s hopeless for me now. No sense in you not making it too. Especially since I’d like to see you kick everyone else’s butt.”
Lisbeth let out an under-her-breath chortle.
“Mathew, you of all people should know it’s not in my nature to leave someone behind, even if it is just a game.”
“Unless it was for the good of everyone else. Or the world.” She punched his arm with a smirk. “And this isn’t a game, Lisbeth. It does matter. Especially to you.” He wasn’t wrong. Duty and what was right did have to come first in the real world. And this training battle was important, but so was he.
“We have plenty of time,” she argued instead. “We’ll hunker down here for a little longer and give your ankle more time.” Lisbeth grabbed a potion bottle from Mathew’s shoulder belt. “Knew this one would come in handy.” She winked and smashed the bottle against the log, the contents erupting silently into a fine mist that surrounded them. It muted their voices and gave them extra cover; to an outsider, it looked like a patch of fog.
“It worked,” clapped Mathew, thrilled.
“Of course it did. You made it.” And he was one of the best potion makers she’d ever met. Why everyone else refused to see it and force him into this training instead, she’d never understand. She’d let Mathew teach her to make potions any day.
“Still, it might be considered cheating,” he worried.
“Nah. Only rules we were given were, don’t attack the trainers, defend against them only. Didn’t tell us one thing about not using Mathew Bishop’s newest awesome potion invention.”
