Descension (2 page)

Garran fearfully watched Agro’s agitated gestures, clearly torn between begging for his life and fleeing for it. “He said it had been twenty-one years since the great Agro had been taken for a fool. And I defended you, sir. I said nobody calls Agro a fool. Agro’s a good man who helps little people like me out of tight spots. But the stranger just laughed and said you’d been hoodwinked.”

Agro stopped pacing when he heard the time line. “What else did the stranger say?”

“He told me you believe the child dead, but she’s alive, living somewhere in Oklahoma, in a hexless community.”

Agro turned his back on the snitch, muscles rolling. If what the stranger revealed was true, he
had
been taken for a fool. Rage swelled, burning his eyes and lungs. So the child was alive—a twenty-one-year-old female living in a non-magical community in Oklahoma. But who was the stranger in the tavern? It had taken a great sacrifice to ensure the child’s safety. So why, twenty-one years later, would someone blatantly reveal the secret? Who was this unknown third faction who’d discovered the truth when he, the great Agro, had not? And why had the man freely passed such valuable information to a worthless rat like Garran Bram?

“What did the stranger look like?” Agro quietly asked.

“He was young, sir,” Garran answered, “early twenties, with fair skin and short hair—light brown or dark blonde, however you flip it. And he had a short mustache and goatee. I never saw his eyes. He wore sunglasses the whole time.”

“Useless information,” Agro hissed. The unknown wizard could have easily transformed his appearance before revealing his secret. Only his eyes would have been genuine, the color and detail of the iris, but he’d wisely kept them hidden.

Agro turned, looking down at his unpleasant company. “Did the stranger give you any more information about the child?”

“No, sir, only what I’ve told you.”

“Did you share this with anyone else before bringing it to me?”

Garran’s eyes widened as he hurriedly shook his head. “No, sir. Of course not. I came straight to you.”

Agro tapped a fingernail to his temple, considering a plan of action.

“I’ve done well, right?” Garran asked, starting to relax.

Agro looked down. “Yes, Garran, you’ve done well, which bestows in me the tiniest tinge of regret for what I must do next.”

Garran’s hopeful expression wrinkled in confusion then flexed in fright as Agro raised a palm. Garran opened his mouth to scream, but the shriek died in his throat as his body solidified into a horrifying ice sculpture with terrified eyes and a twisted mouth. Agro’s hand fell to his side, and the frozen man shattered. With one more flick of the wrist, the shards flew from the tent.

Pity, Agro mused. Then his goblet and pipe reappeared as he called for Farriss.

Present Day—Oklahoma

Layla Callaway—young, healthy and desperately desolate; lost in a forsaken and pessimistic chasm bereft of pleasure and purpose. Her descension into the lonely belly of the debilitating beast had taken three years, three years of emotional pain and nail-biting fear. Though she remained cognizant enough to discern the depth of her despair, hope had dwindled, taking with it the motivation to resurface.

Not even dipping into childhood memories could stem Layla’s grief. Rich as they were, lavish with love, happiness and peace, all of them co-starred Katherine—Layla’s mom, best friend, and lone relative—and Katherine was gone, dead for two months, though a massive stroke had smothered her lights three years earlier, leaving her an invalid.

“Three years,” Layla brooded, sitting at Gander Creek’s lone stop light.

The light turned green, and she tapped the gas pedal of her Taurus, creeping past thrift shops, general stores, and meandering people. She eventually cleared downtown and sped up, wistfully sighing at the steely gray clouds rolling in from the west.

Oklahoma’s severe weather was one of the few things Layla still managed to appreciate—the untamed power that humbled the soul, intrigued the mind, and awakened the senses. But while Katherine’s death hadn’t stifled Layla’s love of storms, it had dulled the excitement she got from them. No longer could she and Katherine sit on the porch together, acting like giddy children as they watched the clouds swirl with ferocious grace, counting the seconds between strikes of lighting and clacks of thunder, goading each other into more intense anticipation of whipping wind and beating rain.

As usual, Layla’s memories took a sad turn.

Giant raindrops occasionally slapped her windshield as she parked behind the local diner, recalling the night she found her mom unconscious on the floor. The image would forever be burned into her mind, haunting her dreams nightly. A medical team managed to revive Katherine, but her nervous system was shot. Her brain, however, was a thing of mystery not even three years could unravel. Even the expensive doctors in the big cities couldn’t answer Layla’s questions about Katherine’s mental capacities, so for three years, Layla acted as her mom’s caregiver, unsure if she understood words, remembered the past, or recognized her daughter’s voice and face. Nevertheless, Layla always treated Katherine as if her brain worked fine, and she flatly refused the option of a nursing home. What was three measly years, after all, compared to all the wonderful years Katherine took care of her? At least the time she’d spent nursing her mom gave Layla focus and purpose. With that purpose dead and gone, life was empty.

Layla tied her jet black spirals into a long ponytail then pulled in a deep breath, trying to straighten her shoulders, but she only got them halfway there before giving up. Oh well. Time to go to work, bad posture and all.

She tugged at the knots in her apron strings as she entered the diner, shuffling alongside an outdated bar displaying the usual greasy spoon delights. “Damn apron,” she murmured, struggling with a particularly stubborn knot as she stepped into the break room.

“Surprise!”

Layla cursed and jolted, dropping her apron to clutch the door jamb. When she regained her wits, she looked around, finding two of her co-workers—Travis Baker and Phyllis Carter—next to a homemade cake with the words
Happy 21
^st
B-Day
written across the top.

“Is today the third?” Layla squeaked. “Of March?” She
was
in bad shape. She’d forgotten her own birthday.

Travis pulled Layla into a hug as he threw Phyllis an
I told you so
look. “Hell, Layla,” he gently chided, leaning back to find her face, “you’ve gone and forgotten your twenty-first birthday.” His tone brightened as he wiggled his eyebrows, trying to make her laugh. “I think it’s ’bout time ya had a night out. Ya know, paint the town red. This place could use some color, and ya need to get outta your funk. First, I think, we'll get ya drunk. Then we’ll find a farmhand willin’ to fulfill all your naughty desires.”

In many ways, Travis was a paradox. A country boy born and raised, he worked on the family farm until his dad passed away. Strapped for cash, his mom sold the land, moving Travis to town when he was seventeen. Now, at the age of twenty-three, he still adorned his reed thin, six-foot frame in tight Wranglers and leather boots, and he could easily pass for a star on the professional bull rider’s circuit, but not everything was as it seemed with Travis. Yes, he could handle a ranch and all its inner workings, but he wouldn’t do it without an MP3 player filled with show tunes. Travis was an admitted homosexual—the only one in town.

Layla had witnessed Travis face persecution in Gander Creek too many times to count. He was shunned daily by its small-minded citizens, and she often wondered how much longer he could put up with it. He stayed for his mother, whose health had waned following a heart attack, and if Travis was anything at all, he was devoted to his mamma. So he remained in a town where most people passed unfair judgment, tossed about slurs, or simply leered at him in disgust.

Layla adored Travis. He was the closest thing to a friend she had, and he was the one person who could bring a genuine, if halfhearted, smile to her face.

“It’s sweet of you to offer me a compliant farmhand, Trav,” she sarcastically replied, flashing him the elusive smile. “But getting drunk and felt up like a dairy cow isn’t everyone’s favorite brand of medicine.”

“Lord knows it’s mine,” Phyllis disagreed, swooping in for a hug. “Used to be anyway. Now-a-days it’s a hot bath and a good book. But I’m an old woman, honey. You’re young and gorgeous.”

Layla felt many things, none of them young or gorgeous, but as a perpetually doting woman, Phyllis always said things like that. The plump, fifty-four-year-old was widowed young and childless, and she remained that way, perfectly content to spend her days toiling at the diner only to return to an empty home. She was her own pleasant company, she claimed in defense, and Layla believed it. Phyllis was an unceasingly positive person and likely hummed a happy tune every time she walked through the house.

“It’s not like you’re ninety, Phyllis,” Layla pointed out. “You could spend the next twenty or thirty years getting your udders felt up.”

“Amen to that,” Travis advocated.

Phyllis rolled her hazel eyes behind thick glasses. “Shoot. That would mean puttin’ down my book and exercisin’. ’Sides, I’m fond of my jelly rolls and the sweets that put ’em there.”

“Ya know,” Travis teased, nudging Phyllis with a bony elbow, “some men like more cushion for the pushin’.”

Layla’s blush flared, and Phyllis smirked, shooing Travis away with a bejeweled hand. “Anyway,” she diverted, smiling at Layla, “happy birthday, hon. I made your favorite cake—dark chocolate ganache with mocha icin’.”

Layla patted her stomach. “Mmm… Are you trying to make me fat?”

“You could stand to put some meat on your bones,” Phyllis lectured.

“Well that cake should do the trick,” Layla countered. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure. Now, Travis somehow talked me into lettin’ him pick out the gift. But…” She held up an index finger, warning Travis not to interrupt. “I must admit, he did an excellent job.”

Travis’ mouth fell open. “Why Phyllis, if ya keep up those compliments and your yummy cookin’, I just might put a ring on your finger.”

Phyllis rolled her eyes but giggled like a school girl. Travis had a way of boosting a woman’s confidence.

“So what did you get me, Trav?” Layla urged.

Knowing Travis, it was something entertaining and thoughtful. He usually blessed her with humorous limericks written on paper flowers or napkin butterflies, and on a few occasions, he’d brought her foreign candies provided by his vast collection of internet comrades.

“Well I’m not givin’ it to ya, missy,” he refused with a grin, “unless ya agree to have a drink with me after work.”

Blah
. Layla didn’t know what a bar was like. She’d never been in one and had no reason to dislike them, but she had absolutely no interest in seeing the people who patronized the local watering hole. It catered to an uncomfortable combination of town drunks, town gossips, and people she’d gone to high school with, all of whom knew about her mom’s death. Gander Creek was a small town where the only topics of discussion were religion, the weather, the deaths, and the gay guy who worked at the diner, so she knew the subject of her personal life had been on the wagging tongues of its bored citizens. She’d be foolish to place herself in a social setting with any of them. If they didn’t bombard her with heart-wrenching sympathies, or avoid her altogether, they’d ask her what she was doing with herself these days, and sadly, she’d have no answer.

“How about this?” she suggested. “You buy the booze, and we’ll drink at my house. You should come, too, Phyllis. We’ll play cards or something.”

Layla could tell Travis wanted to argue. This plan negated the part of his that got her felt up by a farmhand, but he must have thought better of it, because he sighed and grabbed her gift off the table.

“Only you wouldn’t give a damn ’bout bein’ carded on your twenty-first birthday. Here,” he said, gray-blue eyes sparkling with pride as he handed her a neatly wrapped package.

Layla returned his smile then looked down, a blush heating her cheeks as she carefully tore the wrapping paper from a green velvet box. For some reason, getting gifts from someone other than her mom always flustered her; she never felt like she sufficiently expressed her gratitude, so her anxiety spiked when she saw the jewelry box. Surely Travis hadn’t bought her jewelry. But he had. He’d bought her the most beautiful necklace she’d ever gotten her hands on.

A wide braid of platinum coiled over a large, oval stone, which initially shone vivid emerald green, but a closer inspection revealed a wave of emerald swirling atop deep black and darker shades of green, like liquid in motion.

Layla’s chest tightened with a mixture of guilt and gratitude as she bowed her head over the necklace, presumably to examine it, which she was, but she viewed it through the blossoming tears she was trying to hide. She hadn’t been a very good friend to anyone in so long, and she’d never been the kind of friend Travis and Phyllis deserved, yet here they were, giving her beautiful jewelry. She took a shaky breath, fighting the threatening waterworks.