A Lost Witch (A Modern Witch Series: Book 7) (27 page)

“Hannah had a terrible attack.”  Moira spoke from the left side of the bed.  “It reached out and connected with Aervyn somehow.”

Across a continent.  The moment she’d seen him crumple hit her square in the chest again.  Lauren looked down at the boy cuddled into her side, deeply asleep.

And felt fear assault her bruised mind anew.

“He’s okay.”  Dev’s hand rubbed her arm, rhythmic like the waters that were the source of his power.  Fuzzball was falling asleep under the ministrations of his other hand.  “The healers jumped on him as soon as you cut off the precog stream.  He’s fine, and his head doesn’t scratch at all.  Just tired.”

She shifted on the bed, curling up around the boy who had become part of her soul.  Desperately glad he was there to cuddle.

“He wouldn’t leave.”  Nell spoke from the foot of the bed, eyes glittery.  “We tried to take him away when it was still touch-and-go for you.  Little punk was barely conscious and he threw out a magical glue spell that would have taken three of us to break.”

Tenderly, gingerly, Lauren tucked Aervyn in under her chin and let his warm breath begin to assuage the echoing terror in her heart.

She squeezed her eyes shut, deeply grateful that the wall behind her eyelids appeared to be blank.  No more images.  Moira’s cool hand touched her forehead.  “Sophie’s given you something to dampen the replay.  There will be more when you need it.”

Allowing that she
would
need it.  Even her cowardice, they understood.

“Don’t.”  Nell knelt down by the bed, her voice yanking Lauren’s eyes back open.  “You stepped in front of death to save my boychild, and I will never, ever forget it.  You never had to prove anything to this family.”  Her breath hitched as she stroked Aervyn’s hair.  “But you sure as hell don’t now.”

Oh, holy God.  She’d married into a freaking family of heroes—bravery happened most days before breakfast.  Lauren dug up enough energy to raise her head and  grin.  “Excellent.  Next time I’ll push Devin in instead.”

Nell stared at her for a moment, face frozen in confusion.

And then quiet laughter started to ripple through the somber bedroom.

Lauren laid her head back down on the pillows, exhausted—but no longer petrified.

It wasn’t okay yet.  But it would be.

-o0o-

Her head hurt, so much.

Hannah squeezed her eyes shut against the invading light of the real world and wished only for oblivion.

A warm hand touched her forehead and the pain receded a little.  “I’m sorry—that’s all I dare do for now.”

It was a strange voice, one she couldn’t place.

And while her head hurt terribly, it didn’t have the muddy, cotton-wool feel that powerful sedatives always left in their wake.

So hard to think through the pain.

“Sitting up might help a little, if you feel able.”

She didn’t feel able to breathe, much less sit up.

Hannah felt hands reaching behind her shoulders, supporting her rag-doll head.  And a new voice, much more familiar this time, murmuring words she’d heard a thousand times.

Dr. Max.  Fear spiked through the pain.  Her fingers clutched the sheets, trying, even now, to run from her failure. 

“Shh.”  His hands wrapped over hers.  “Open your eyes, Hannah.”

The sheets weren’t starched.  The linens smelled of cold sweat—but also of vanilla and citrus.  Caro’s home.  Slowly, she opened her eyes, one painful, tearing fraction at a time.

The light hurt—but the sheets were a cheerful yellow, not institution white.

Gratitude seared Hannah’s brain.  She looked up at the first face she always saw after her attacks, eyes full of questions.

“You’re not back at Chrysalis House.”  His smile was dim, but real.  “I came to you.  Don’t ask how.”

She’d heard vague rumors of magical Internet transport from witches en route to the wedding—an amped-up version of Jamie’s teleporting.  It suddenly amused her mightily.  “They beamed you in, did they?” 

“Not just me.”  His eyes were serious—and leaking awe.  “Sophie here as well, and Lizard and Tabitha and quite a few whose names I missed.”

Hannah shifted her gaze to the other person in the room, who was mixing something in a glass with quiet competence. 

The woman looked up, smiling.  “This won’t help your head immediately, but I’m guessing you’re feeling a bit nauseated as well.  It will settle your stomach and relax your channels—they’re still pretty stressed from your precog episode.”

The tone was the one of competent medical people everywhere—but the words were from another planet.  Hannah struggled to hold on to reason through the pounding headache.  Sophie must be a witchy healer like Ginia.  “What’s in the glass?” 

Most crazy people took whatever the doctors told them to take.  Hannah wasn’t most crazy people.  She gritted her teeth—she also wasn’t crazy, although at this moment, that was hard to remember.

“She’s a skilled healer.”  Dr. Max fixed a sliding pillow.  “And whatever was in her last concoction stopped your attack dead in its tracks, so I’d advise drinking this one, too.”

Wow.  Hannah stared at the glass the stranger held out.  “Is it a sedative?”

“Not in the sense you mean.”  Sophie sat down on the edge of the bed, tumbler cupped in her hands.  “I have some skill with plants and herbs, and healing magic to go along with them.  I can use my skills to deepen the natural properties of the plants.”

Somehow, the litany of words was soothing.  And fascinating, which gave her brain something to do other than hurt.  “But don’t most drugs come from plants?”

“Yes.  Many people don’t know that.”  The woman smiled and passed over the glass.  “But drugs can’t be tailored as precisely to the patient and often come with some unwelcome side effects.  This should help relax some of your body systems that are still in overdrive without clouding your mind.”

Hannah stared at the vaguely green liquid in the glass. 

“If you’re more comfortable with your usual protocols, I won’t be offended at all.”  Sophie looked over at Dr. Max.  “I think she would benefit from an adrenaline blocker and something to stabilize her dopamine levels.”

The sudden neurochemistry chatter had Hannah blinking.  “My dopamine doesn’t stabilize.”  She had the bad drug reactions to prove it.

“It did this time,” Dr. Max said slowly, looking at the glass.  “Your hands are steady.”

They always had the jitters after an attack.  Always.

“I got the receptors dampened, but they’re still a bit swingy.”  Sophie was pulling something else out of her bag now.  “Here, this should help as well.”

The gorgeous blue crystal tugged at Hannah, even as she stared at it, trying to reconcile New Age paraphernalia with a woman who could chat dopamine receptors.  “Those things actually work?”

“Used properly, yes.”  Sophie laid the crystal on the duvet.  “Most of the time, people don’t diagnose the underlying issues correctly, and then they’re just pretty rocks.”

That was a weak word for the stunning, faceted stone.  Hannah touched a finger to it and jumped as the buzz went halfway up her arm.

The healer chuckled and touched the crystal and the glass.  “These are my tools, but Dr. Max knows you very well.  If you’d prefer to use what he can offer you, that would be fine.  Or we can work out a blended approach.”

The good doctor raised an eyebrow.  “Oh, I’d definitely like to work with you.”

Hannah grinned—she knew that tone well.  If Sophie didn’t want to work with Dr. Max, she should start running now.

He winked her direction.  “But for now, if it were me, I’d drink whatever’s in that glass.”

She picked up the tumbler of liquid green.  She’d done far worse things in the name of science and a chance at a normal life.

It struck her as strange, halfway through the glass, that hope tasted vaguely like lemon.

-o0o-

Nell could feel the shakes starting.  The looming, inevitable shattering of the warrior whose work was finally done.  Her sweet baby boy still slept, tucked up against the woman who had been willing to exchange her life for his.

Safe.

She slid down the wall outside Lauren’s room and tried to fall apart as silently as possible.

“Ah, baby girl.”  Her mother’s arms wrapped around Nell’s crumpling frame.  “I wondered when this was coming.”

Nell felt the heaving, horrible sobs starting way down in her kidneys.  “I always thought it would be me.”  Her child.  Her life to give.

“I know.”  Hands less than steady stroked her hair.  “So did I.”

There was nowhere to hide from the memories in her brain. 

Aervyn, writhing on the ground, screaming for Mama.  And then leaving him, a broken, limp shell, to go fight for the life of another.  Daniel’s death-white face as she’d gone.

You will never forget, my darling girl.
 Retha’s voice was full of sorrow and certainty. 
But those aren’t the only things to remember.

New images pushed into Nell’s head now.  Ones carefully collected by a woman who had a razor-sharp sense of what mattered most.

Mia and Shay, one on each side of Daniel, bookending Aervyn’s limp form.  Guardians. 

Nathan, holding Matt’s bag and Aervyn’s red fire truck, and believing.

Devin, his unconscious wife in his arms—compelling the universe to give her back. 

And Lauren’s face, right before she stepped in front of the maelstrom of power shattering Aervyn.  A face with one, singular purpose.

You do not stand alone, baby girl.  Not ever.

Nell felt the anguished, racking sobs, and knew they weren’t all hers. 

But she also felt her feet finding their place again—in the bedrock of the Sullivan family’s mind-bending love.

-o0o-

Her head had resumed approximately its normal shape and size.  It was time to find out what the heck was going on.  Hannah stuck her head out of her room and looked for the most likely culprit.

Dr. Max rounded the corner juggling a beer, a book, and a cookie.  He would do.

She cleared her throat and tried not to laugh as the book hit the floor.  Wasn’t hard to figure out where his priorities lay.

He raised an eyebrow.  “Feeling better, huh?”

Physically, yes.  Now it was time to work through the harder stuff.  “I need someone to tell me what happened.”

“Okay.”  He came in her open door, eyes careful.  “Not sure I’m the best person to do that.  I’m still trying to wrap my head around all the witchy stuff.”

The number of psychiatrists in the world who could even begin to do that was very small.  “Tell me what you know.  How did everyone get back here so fast?”

“Witchy transport.  Very
Star Trek
.”  He held up the beer.  “Possibly why a couple of these are feeling really good right about now.  Sedative of the people.”

It was impossible not to laugh.  World-class psychiatrist and total goofball. 

“So witches descended like locusts, fed me some kind of magical potion, and now I have a sore head?”  That sounded almost benign.  Which meant she didn’t know the half of it yet.  “No bullshit, Dr. Max.”  It was their first and only inviolate rule.

He took a big swig, and then set down his beer and handed over half a cookie.  “Why don’t we start at the beginning—what do you remember?”

Fear.  “I was in isolation here at the house.  They’d all gone to the wedding.  I felt the attack coming.  Lay down on the floor, tried to fight it off.”  Entirely ineffectually—there had been no time to lay the warp.  No magic weavers to help her hold it together.

He frowned.  “You were alone?  What was the trigger?”

The ice in her stomach heaved and cracked.  Yeah.  Not benign.  “I don’t know.  There was no one here.”  There was only one other attack in her life that had begun that way, and she’d woken up after that one in Chrysalis House.

“Any prodromal stuff?  Warnings?”

The cookie had crumbled to dust in her hands.  “No.  Wait, yes.  I had a headache.  All day.”

“Did it get worse before the attack?”

Time jumbled around her attacks—it always had.  “I think so, but I’m not sure.”

He studied the label on his beer for a minute.  “Did anything feel different from the usual?”

No.  Other than the fleeting hope that it might end differently this time, immediately crushed under reality’s cement truck.  Hannah slid down the edge of the bed to the floor, seeking the knee-cuddling cocoon that would change nothing.

“I believe I know the trigger.”

Hannah’s head jerked up, zeroing in on the voice at the door.  Retha walked into the room, bearing a tray piled high with food and cookies.  She eyed Dr. Max.  “We’re going to talk very plainly now.  If that will bother you, there’s spaghetti being served in the kitchen.”

His lips quirked.  “You mean if I’m one of those wimpy psychiatrist-types who can’t handle witches and strong women?”

Hers quirked back at him.  “Exactly.”

He reached for a cookie.  “I’ll stay.”

Hannah watched the byplay and wondered, yet again, how such amazing people had landed in her life.  And then shivered that despite their arrayed creativity, she apparently couldn’t keep two feet anywhere near a normal life.

Retha eyed her. 
Buck up—we’re not nearly done with you yet.

It was hard to quit when no one else would.  Hannah hugged her knees and tried to gather her thoughts. 

Dr. Max was quicker on the beat.  “You think you know the trigger.”

“Yes.”  Retha helped herself to a sandwich that looked like it had been made by small hands—half an inch of peanut butter, and jam fingerprints all over the bread.

Hannah took the sticky offering, even though her stomach was in no mood for food.  “Did I do something wrong?”  Well, other than totally disrupting some poor couple’s wedding. 

“The wedding was lovely and you did no such thing,” said Retha, patting Hannah’s knee.  “And most of us have been coming and going as we can.  They’ll be partying deep into the night—Cassidy is a musician.”

Hollow fear scraped at Hannah’s throat.  “Long, curly hair.  Plays the violin.”

Retha nodded slowly.  “Yes.  I didn’t realize you’d seen her.”