by Elle Thorne
The trio was walking her way.
Wouldn’t do to get caught eavesdropping. Might as well look like I was just walking up.
Symone stepped out from the cover of the thicket.
Chapter Eleven
Marco stared at the woman before him. The witch who’d crafted the sand snake. Was she the sister that Cedric and Jenner had called Symone?
He glanced at Jaron and Alara. How would he explain their presence to her?
Alara stepped forward, holding a hand out to the witch. “I’m Alara. Jaron and Marco have known each other for a long time. We thought we’d stop by to say hello.”
“You were in the neighborhood?” The witch raised a brow, eyeing Alara’s hand.
Marco looked at Alara’s hand, as well as the witch’s, which hung at her side. Don’t leave her hanging. And why did the witch look like she didn’t believe Alara? Then just as quickly, the suspicion was replaced on the witch’s face with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
The witch took Alara’s hand. “Symone.”
I knew it! I knew that was her name.
Okay, maybe he didn’t know, but he suspected it, that was for certain. So, this was the Symone that the brothers had talked about. And now, with all the shit hitting the fan, he couldn’t remember exactly what they’d said about her, but he was pretty sure they were cautioning him.
Oh, well. Too late now.
His panther snarled, warning him that someone was approaching.
Now, you’re on guard duty again? You couldn’t warn me when Symone was coming? Marco wondered what she’d heard, and hope it wasn’t much. Or even better, that it was nothing at all.
Seconds later, the source of the voices appeared. Brigitte and another woman, one who looked a lot like Symone.
He studied her. No, she paled by comparison. It wasn’t that she wasn’t beautiful in her own right, but—he chanced an appraising glance at Symone, then looked back at the newcomer—she didn’t have that fire in her eyes, that set to her jaw that said she wouldn’t quit easily, that arch to her brow that warned a man to watch his step. Oh, yeah, this one had nothing on Symone.
The newcomer smiled at Marco then turned to Brigitte. “Spot on.”
Brigitte beamed. “I know, right? He’s sheer perfection.”
Symone made a scoffing sound under her breath. Marco offered her a frown, then glanced at Alara and Jaron in apology. It wasn’t his fault that their conversation had been interrupted—first by Symone and the dog, and now by the newly arrived duo, but still, he felt responsible for the disruption.
“This is Marcella,” Brigitte indicated the other woman. “Symone’s sister.”
“Halfsies,” Marcella added.
“Pardon?” Marco looked at Symone for an explanation.
“Half-sisters,” Brigitte explained.
Marco nodded. “Never heard it called that.”
Symone was shaking her head with something that looked close to disgust.
Brigitte turned to Alara and Jaron. “And you are…”
Giving Marco a dirty look, Symone cleared her throat. “Friends of Marco’s.”
“Friends who were just leaving,” Alara added. “Nice to make your acquaintance,” she offered to Symone.
“No.” Jaron shook his head slightly. “Not yet. We haven’t—”
What was Alara thinking? She couldn’t just up and leave, taking Jaron with her. What the hell would happen to Jaron? To me? His panther snarled, then roared, in his mind.
Marco burst into a coughing fit. “Wait—”
“Come,” Alara took Jaron’s hand, starting to walk off.
Jaron looked back at Marco, his own expression on the confused side.
Marco couldn’t pitch a fit or create any curiosity. He had to keep his cool, but on the inside, he was beyond panicked.
Symone stepped closer. “You’re not fooling anyone,” she said, her voice low.
What the hell did she hear us say? What did she see?
Brigitte stepped closer to Marco. “Your friend’s cute.” She pointed to Jaron.
“Really, Brigitte.” There was no mistaking the revulsion in Symone’s tone. “Can you not control your hyperactive hormones for the briefest of seconds?”
Marco wanted to smile, and under any other circumstances, he would have, if he weren’t worried about Jaron.
Symone glanced at him, then toward the departing Alara and Jaron. And just like that, without further word, she swiveled and followed them across the white sand.
Shit.
He looked between Symone, Brigitte, and Marcella, and the couple striding into the forested area.
“Excuse me,” he told Brigitte and Marcella.
Chapter Twelve
Symone didn’t even bother to pretend that she wasn’t outright following Alara and Jaron. Hers was not a simple curiosity, this was her island—she didn’t own it, but it belonged to the Witches’ Circle, and she was accountable for happenings here. She had a responsibility to ensure the safety of the witches on the island and the Circle’s interests. Plus, if she had to admit it, she was intrigued. Intrigued by the man called Marco who was a shifter and had this elemental thing going on, and by the couple that had emerged out of nothingness.
She kept her eye on the handsome couple garbed in opulent robes. Those vibrant colors should be easy to keep up with, even in the thickness of the trees which were practically rainforest dense.
Whoa.
She froze. She’d lost sight of them.
Where’d they go?
Next to her Max stilled.
Symone didn’t move. Didn’t even breathe, listening for Alara and Jaron.
Nothing.
How the hell could that be? She looked around, hoping that the telltale shimmer from earlier would be an indicator of what they’d done and how they’d vanished, but there was no shimmer at all. The air looked as it should. They’d mentioned cloaking during their conversation. She didn’t think this was what they’d meant, but then again, she wasn’t sure.
“Where are you,” she whispered. “Where the hell have you gone?”
She got no answer.
“Damn,” she uttered under her breath.
Abruptly, an iron grip closed around her arm.
Gasping, she whirled around.
“You.” The word came out in a whoosh of air.
It was Marco.
He appraised her with uncanny eyes. “What did you mean,” he asked, “when you said I’m not fooling anyone?”
Symone shook her head. “This isn’t a good time to visit.” She tried to pull her arm from fingers that felt like iron bands around her flesh.
His face gave nothing away.
“Get your hand off me,” she managed between gritted teeth and a clenched jaw. “Before you piss me off.”
His hand didn’t move.
She flicked her fingers at the nearest tree. At a rapid rate, almost faster than the naked eye could witness, a vine grew from the tree and reached out, taking Marco’s arm, wrapping around his muscles, prying his grip off her arm, then tugging him backward.
Expression finally made its way to his face as anger took over. His eyes turned hard, and a burst of water erupted from the ground, twirling like a tight thin cyclone, it made a trail toward the vine that now surrounded his torso and had him pinned to a large palm tree. He glanced at in wonder, but the surprise vanished from his face quickly.
The water hissed and spun, faster and faster, until it began to saw through the vine, freeing him, one branch at a time. He stepped free of the green confines she’d created.
Oh, that’s how it is?
She snapped her fingers, and a gust of wind flared toward the saw made of water, shattering it into a million droplets that scattered around him.
The muscles on his jawline and temple worked. In the distance, she could hear the roar of the surf on the beach.
What the hell?
The sea here never sounded ominous. Not on a beautiful d
ay.
Unexpectedly, a shimmer appeared between her and Marco.
He doubled over.
The sound of the ocean calmed.
Symone knew she didn’t cause him to double over. She definitely wasn’t the reason for that.
He looked up at her, his eyes blank for a brief second, as though he wasn’t himself, and then just as quickly, they flickered, and he was normal again.
She planted her hands on her hips. “You have some explaining to do.”
He shook his head, wiping droplets off his arms. “I don’t think so.”
She raised her hand to snap her fingers.
“Don’t,” he cautioned her. “Or I’ll—”
The sound of something—or someone—crashing through the brush interrupted him.
Brigitte stepped out from the thicket, closely followed by Marcella.
“There you are!” Brigitte sang out.
Clearly, Brigitte was addressing Marco, because she’d never seemed that happy to see Symone.
He flicked an annoyed glance at Brigitte, then turned his attention back to Symone. “As I was saying—” He took a step closer to her.
“Hey!” Brigitte’s tone was sharp. “You don’t ignore me.”
Symone heaved a sigh she hadn’t meant to.
“We’re busy,” Marco told Brigitte.
“Busy, what?” Red splotches appeared on Brigitte’s cheeks. “Symone doesn’t look exactly thrilled.”
Behind Brigitte, Marcella let out a small laugh.
“Go away, Brigitte.” Symone was out of patience.
“You don’t tell me what to do, Miss High ‘n Mighty. You don’t own this island. I’m—I—you have no—”
Before Brigitte could finish her tirade, faster than the blink of an eye, and definitely before Symone could react, Marco bridged the distance between the fiery witch and himself, had his arms on her waist and his mouth on Symone’s.
Time stopped.
Firm and yet somehow tender, his lips had claimed hers.
If she’d been asked, Symone couldn’t say what prompted her to close her eyes. But she did. Breathless from their battle, and for some reason that infuriated her later, she yielded to the moment. Yielded to the man.
“I see how it is.” Peeved was the best way to describe Brigitte’s tone.
The sound of footsteps crashing away from them let her know Brigitte and Marcella were departing.
That same din also brought Symone back to the present.
She shoved his chest, pushing him away.
“How dare you? Who the hell do you—”
“Got rid of her, didn’t it?”
Her lips tingled, her pulse raced.
“You—”
The sounds of bones shifting, sinew stretching, and muscles thickening heralded a sight she’d never beheld before.
Within seconds, the gorgeous man before her became a panther with glittering eyes and gleaming black fur.
One leap and he vanished into the thickness of the brush.
She brought her fingers to her lips, touch the tingling flesh, and released a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
Damn.
Chapter Thirteen
Muscular and lithe in his panther form, Marco bounded through the forest.
What the hell was I thinking?
Way to make an enemy. It was clear from her reaction she hated him even more now.
Great. Just great. Imagine what Cedric and Jenner will think. They invited him to vacation at their place… and now this.
He should go back and apologize. But he had something more dire to deal with at the moment. Jaron was back. That was the reason he’d doubled over in pain. Just as shifting into his panther had a measure of discomfort, when Jaron had reentered his body, there’d been a painful surge of energy.
Welcome back, Jaron. Thank you for your help with her magic ivy.
You are welcome. I am sorry that it causes you pain when I join you.
Me too. Hopefully, you won’t be doing this much more.
About that…
Marco ignored that segue. He had a more pressing question. How is it that I didn’t feel Alara when she entered before? She’s here again, right? Alara?
No, Marco, she did not come this time. She—
Marco stilled. What? Is she okay?
She is fine. She does not need to be in a host to survive. I, on the other hand, do. For now.
So he was back on that, the for now phrase gave it away.
I’ll bite. You say for now. Meaning?
With her help—when I accept it—I will not need to be in a host to survive. I can be as I used to be.
You said, when you accept it? Why haven’t you? Why has she not done her magic thing—whatever it’s called—and made you independent?
I will not abandon you. I cannot. We have been together for so long. You are as a brother to me.
Marco found it interesting that even after all these years, Jaron still didn’t use contractions in his speech. So formal.
I also feel close to you.
I had hopes that you would assist us in building our community of Zimoshi. Of being a part of the reunion.
Me? I’m not one of you. I don’t know the first thing about—
Yes, but after my liberation—
You make it sound like you’re my captive.
I apologize. Circumstance is my captor, you are merely where I am housed.
I think you mean incarcerated, Marco corrected him, though inside, a part of Marco was sad to hear his friend speaking in these terms.
True. Incarcerated. I am not angry at you. This has been my way for so long that I hold no anger toward anyone. Jaron paused. Maybe the Barabins, but they are no more. When I am gone, and you no longer have an elemental facet to you, do you think you will still reside with the Order of Elementals?
Good question. I’d need to think on that, perhaps talk to Circe.
Marco pondered the idea of being “just” a shifter. No elemental. Damn. He wondered if Circe would like to spend a little time in paradise. He could use someone to talk to. Someone who got it. And then something occurred to him.
Jaron, where will you and Alara start this community of yours? How many Zimoshi people are we talking about?
Also, a good question. I will need to think on this as well. And like you, I will need to talk to someone—Alara.
I should return. To check on Symone. And Alara, Marco told Jaron.
Chapter Fourteen
Symone stared after Marco’s departing panther.
A throat clearing interrupted her reverie.
“Brigitte, do you ever give—” she whirled around, “—up.”
Except it wasn’t Brigitte.
“You.”
Alara’s smile was faint. “You were listening in on the conversation I had with Marco and Jaron.” The smile vanished. “How much did you understand?”
Symone paused to get her bearings. Things had been a tornadic flurry of activity. What did she understand of what they said. Barely anything, it seemed. “Not enough.”
Alara tilted her head, her ebony hair resembling a sheet of black glass, gleaming where the sunlight slipped past the canopy of the forest. “Why do you carry such animosity toward elemental types?”
“I thought I hid it.”
“Not well enough.”
“We have a history.”
“We as in you? Or we as in your people? You have people, do you not? The Circle of Witches and such?”
It’d been fair to say that Symone didn’t care for the questioning. She shrugged, but replied, “Me.”
“If you would share the history of that animosity with me, I can share with you.”
“What kind of history?”
“The kind you say you do not understand enough about.”
Could she trust Alara?
All her senses told her she could.
“As a sign of good faith,” Alara said with a raised brow, “I wi
ll go first.”
“Okay.”
“I can tell you, but if you let me, I can show you. Maybe I cannot show you all of it, but I can show you some things.”
“How?”
Alara placed her hands onto Symone’s temples. “Let me take you to my world.”
“What does that even mean?”
“I will have to trespass on your mind in order to take you to the world I have. The world I’d be forced to have if I were not a mage who can live outside of a host.”
Symone frowned. “I don’t understand. Any of it.”
“Elementals have their own form in their own worlds in the minds of their hosts. With the help of one who is skilled—as I am—another can be taken to that world.”
Symone didn’t know if she should be afraid or not. But she was a witch, perfectly capable of taking care of herself. Right?
Even against someone who might be more powerful? Guess I’ll find out.
“There will be a moment of discomfort.”
Abruptly, a surge of power, not unlike electricity flowed through Symone’s body.
She doubled over, and at the same time, remembered Marco doing much the same thing earlier.
Was this what happened when an elemental entered? She still felt like she knew nothing.
I hope I live through this.
Where did that thought come from? Why would she even think she could die on her paradise island where a dozen or more witches languished in a villa just up the hill?
As if hearing it from within a tunnel, Max’s whine penetrated. She wanted to soothe him, but felt she was elsewhere.
When she straightened, she glanced about her and gasped.
No longer was she in a forest on a tropical island.
Sand and more sand surrounded her. Buildings made of sand. A sun so bright, it hurt her eyes. In the distance, she saw…
“Are those pyramids?” She turned around and around, then looked at Alara. “Where are we?”
“As I mentioned, I entered your subconscious, then I brought you into my own world.”
“What does that mean?”
“It is where elementals can reside when within a host. But few elementals can take their host into their worlds.”
