Descension (17 page)

Layla’s hand flew to her heart as she whipped her gaze to his, searching his eyes as if they held the most frightening and intriguing knowledge in the world. After taking a shaky breath, she looked away, plucking a lost conifer needle from the moss.

“So,” she murmured, snapping the needle into tiny pieces, “my dad… is he dead?”

Quin wrapped his arm around her shoulders and tucked her hair behind her ear, sadly watching her profile as he broke her heart. “Yes. He died within a few weeks of your birth. I’m sorry.”

Her needle was gone, so she fiddled with the sleeves of her sweater as she looked at the stream. “I didn’t realize how much I’d hoped to find him. What were their names? I only know the fake ones.”

Quin played with a curl as he answered. “Rhosewen Keely Conn and Aedan Dagda Donnelly. Your mom took his surname when they married.”

“Those are nice names,” she whispered, raising shaky fingers to her throat.

“I think so, too,” Quin agreed. “Our coven holds your parents in the highest esteem.”

She pensively cocked her head then met his stare. “So Brietta and Banning are related to me?”

“Yes. They’re your second cousins, but with so many of us living together, we simplify things and just call them cousins.”

“I forget how many you said there are,” Layla mumbled. “In my… family.”

“Eight,” Quin answered. “Of the twenty-five people in my coven, eight are related to you by blood or marriage. Your dad’s parents live in Virginia, so you have more relatives, but I don’t know how many.”

She shook her head, eyes wide and shiny. “I couldn’t have imagined this outcome in a million years. I don’t know how to handle it; where to go with it. What’s a person supposed to do with information like this?”

“I can’t imagine how you must feel right now,” Quin offered, wishing he could do more. “You’re handling it better than I would.”

“There’s so much I don’t know,” she mumbled, burying her face in her knees, “so much I don’t understand.” She was silent for a moment, then her voice muffled through denim. “Will you tell me more?”

“Sure,” he agreed, getting things straight in his head. “Let’s see… Your mom’s parents are Caitrin and Morrigan Conn…”

“Morrigan,” Layla repeated. Then she popped her head up. “The pianist?”

“Yes,” Quin confirmed, smiling at the excited spark in her eyes. “That CD was recorded by your maternal grandmother.”

“Wow,” Layla breathed, laying her head back down.

When she didn’t say anything more, Quin continued divulging information. “Your dad’s parents are Serafin and Daleen Donnelly. I’ve seen them several times, so I can answer questions about their looks and personalities, but I don’t know much about their lives in Virginia.” He paused, waiting to see if she had questions, but she didn’t comment, so he kept going. “Neither Rhosewen nor Aedan had siblings, so you don’t have any aunts or uncles, but Caitrin has a sister, which would be your Great-aunt Cinnia…”

“Cinnia?” she asked, raising her head again. “As in
Cinnia’s Café
?”

“The one and only,” he answered.

Layla thoughtfully chewed her lip for a moment then murmured under her breath. “So the coffee was the most important clue.”

“Clue?” he asked.

“You don’t know?” she returned.

“Know what?”

“About the trail of breadcrumbs I was supposed to follow.”

“Oh,” he whispered, wrapping a spiral around his finger. “I know you didn’t have much to go on.”

“Apparently I had more than I thought,” she countered, “but even if I had considered the possibility of a family member owning the café, I wouldn’t have believed it. I’ve never had an aunt, let alone one who sells the best coffee in the world.”

He smiled and swept a lock of hair across the tip of her nose. “You do now.”

“So it would seem,” she conceded. “What else do I have?”

“Well, Cinnia married a man named Arlen Giles, so you also have a great-uncle in the coven, and they had a daughter named Enid. She owns the bookstore next to the café. Enid married a man named Kearny Gilmore, and Brietta and Banning are their children.”

“Let me make sure I got this straight,” Layla said. “In your coven, my family includes my grandparents, Caitrin and Morrigan, a great aunt and uncle, Cinnia and Arlen, and my cousins, Enid, Kearny, Brietta and Banning.”

“You have an excellent memory,” Quin commended.

“I don’t know how I’m remembering any of it,” Layla countered. “My head is too full right now.”

“Magicians have good memories,” Quin explained. “We’re better at compartmentalizing.”

She straightened her shoulders and skeptically met his stare. “So you’re telling me I can do those things you did?”

“With practice, yes, you can do much more than what you’ve seen.”

“How is that possible, Quin? I’ve never done anything remotely close to that. I’ve been as normal as anyone my entire life.”

Quin watched her emerald eyes, pink lips, and shiny spirals, wondering if she’d ever seen a mirror. “You’re far from normal, Layla, but I get what you’re saying.” He paused, searching for the best way to explain. “In most cases, when a magician is born, their coven starts teaching them what they are and how to focus their energy on performing magic. It’s exercised as much as anything else. Like crawling, walking and talking, magic is practiced and encouraged. A few things come naturally, aesthetic things like our good looks, physical grace, sharp memory, and artistic talent, but everything else takes practice. If a magical baby’s never told what she is, never taught how to focus, perform and control her ability, she could live her entire life without realizing she possesses the gift. Above all, if someone doesn’t believe in magic, there’s no way they’ll be able to perform it.”

“How do you do it?” she asked.

“It’s all in the mind,” he answered. “The movements are merely for the benefit of realizing our goal.”

“So you can do those things without moving?”

“Sure, but it takes more concentration.”

She still looked confused, so he elaborated. “Using movements helps us take what is just a thought and turn it into something physical, which makes it more of a reality. That’s the goal of magic, to take the idea we’ve formed in our head and make it a reality. With the fountain, I thought about what I wanted the water to do, and by pointing and moving my hand, it was easier to see it as real.” He sighed. “Am I making sense?”

“I think I get it,” she replied. “If someone’s a magician, they can think of the outcome they want, imagine it as real, and it happens.”

“A good summary,” he approved, “but it’s more complicated than it sounds. Figuring out how to achieve what you want is the hard part. Once you figure that out, it’s easy. Your natural born ability kicks in and all that’s left to do is strengthen the skill by finding quicker or more elaborate ways to achieve your goal.”

Layla picked up the rose he’d given her, drifting it under her nose. “So you created the flower and the scent?”

“Yes,” he confirmed. “I imagined every detail, from stem to petal to pollen.”

“So you need to know the anatomy of your subject to create it?”

“Yes. Otherwise you end up with mutant flowers that quickly wilt. The greater your knowledge and imagination, the better the product.”

“You have a good imagination,” she commended, once again smelling her rose.

“We all do,” he replied, holding out a hand, and another rose appeared—blue and green like the first, but with a slightly different scent. He offered it to Layla, and she happily accepted, grinning as she buried her nose in soft petals.

“I thought magic was supposed to be about spells and rituals,” she said, picking one of the lilies he’d created—a bright pink stargazer, which she bundled with the roses.

“It is,” he confirmed, gathering the nearby stickman and yellow wildflower. Then he took Layla’s bouquet, magically adhering the stickman to the stalks before tying the stem of the wildflower around all four creations. “Even the easiest bit of magic we perform is considered a spell,” he added, returning her flowers, “and sometimes spells are considered rituals; usually when they involve multiple people, objects or an extended period of time. But because our magic is so flexible, our labels are often inconsequential. Two people can bring about the same result by taking two completely different paths. You don’t have to follow a rule book or memorize step-by-step instructions. You just have to use your imagination to figure out a way, and most importantly, you have to be specific about what you want—from stem to petal to pollen, and everything in between.”

“So the only limit to magic is your own,” she concluded.

“Pretty much,” he replied. “But as easy as that sounds, you’ll quickly learn there’s more to it than meets the eye. It’s all in the details. Miss even the tiniest component, and your spell will likely fail. Figure out the details, and the rest is magic.”

“Hmm…” she thought, wiggling her lips. Then she raised an eyebrow at him. “Can you make these flowers live forever?”

“Only with daily care,” he answered. “I would have to keep them hydrated and reverse the marks of time.”

“Can you not create them so that they wouldn’t need water?” she challenged.

Quin grinned at her ornery smirk, wanting to kiss it. “No, I cannot, but there might be someone who can. Can you think of a way?”

She scowled, but humor still tugged at the corners of her mouth. “I guess I deserve that.”

“It wasn’t a shot,” he laughed. “You never know who has the answers you’re looking for.”

“I have no answers,” she whispered. “I don’t even know myself, let alone what I can do.”

“Tell you what,” he offered, reaching for her bouquet, “I’ll keep your flowers alive until you figure it out.”

Her cheeks and smile brightened. “Yeah?”

“Sure,” he agreed, opening his bag, but before he could slip the flowers inside, Layla grabbed his hand.

“You’ll crush them,” she objected.

Quin couldn’t help but laugh as he set the flowers aside and pulled the satchel from his waistband. “It has a spell cast on it,” he revealed, reaching inside the bag. “It holds as much as I need it to, protects its contents, and makes them weightless. It’s a highly detailed spell that requires regular maintenance.”

When his hand emerged from the bag, a large pile of black velvet followed, and Layla quietly gasped. “What is that?”

“The cloak I wear when I fly at night.”

“Oh. What do you wear when you fly during the day?”

“Whatever I want. We can conceal ourselves.”

“What do you mean?”

“I can disappear.”

Her mouth fell open. “Really?”

Quin laughed, surprised she still had the energy to react. “Really.”

“Then why don’t you disappear at night?” she asked.

“It’s nice to fly without hiding,” he answered. “The night gives us the opportunity. Would you like to see the concealment spell? Or not see, I should say.”

“Yes,” she eagerly agreed, watching him with unblinking eyes.

Quin stifled a laugh as he stowed the cloak and flowers and tied his bag to his waistband. Then he stood and took a few steps back. “Ready?”

“Yes,” she answered. Then he was gone.

Layla jolted and nervously scanned the clearing, suddenly terrified she’d never see her magical guide again.

“I haven’t moved,” Quin assured.

She looked to the spot he’d been a moment before, and thought she saw a shimmer, but couldn’t find it a second time.

His voice floated through empty air. “A non-magical person could spend all day in this clearing and not notice me, but you’re different.” A short pause then another shimmer. “Do you want to try out your magic to see me? This would be an easy start.”

“
My
magic?” she squeaked, anxiety swallowing excitement.

“Sure,” he confirmed. “It takes minimal focus once you know what you’re looking for. It’s how we know other magicians when we see them, and how we know what people are feeling. It’s just a matter of opening your mind and eyes to what you know exists.”

“How do I do it?”

“First, close your eyes and remember what I looked like standing here.”

Layla obeyed and sighed. This vision pleased her.

“Don’t focus on the details,” he instructed, “but on the reality of it, that my body, without a doubt, occupies this space. Now, this is the important part. Shift your focus to the intangible aspects of being human—the ability to think critically and the capacity to feel on an emotional level. Those qualities occupy this space as much as my body does. Remember that, focus on it, then open your eyes.”

He fell silent, but Layla kept her eyes closed, concentrating on the picture in her head. But it wasn’t a picture, or even a memory. It was fact. The seemingly empty space in front of her was filled with Quin’s body, heart and soul.

She slowly lifted her eyelids, silently repeating the verity of it. Then she sharply inhaled.

Quin’s presence was validated, but she couldn’t actually see him, just the lack of him. A multicolored, translucent mist swirled around the shape of his body, floating several feet in every direction.