Descension (44 page)

The memories abruptly ceased, suspending Layla in a dark pool of unattached realization where she dissected and retained the facts like a thirsty scientist. Then the nothingness crept away, leaving a disaster in its wake.

Layla’s lungs expanded, her fingers and toes awakened, and her wounded heart echoed in her eardrums. A sorrowful wail bubbled in her swollen throat, growing louder as emotional turmoil—a pain as physical as any she’d ever felt—gripped and squeezed, pulling her into a ball.

“No!” She wanted to go back to the nothingness. The pain of reality was too much, breaking her down and grinding the pieces to dust.

She clawed at her heart, trying to rip the agonizing organ from her chest, but a large hand encircled her wrist, pulling her frantic fingernails away. She gasped, appendages flinging out as her eyes popped open, wet and disoriented. Then warm air floated over her left cheek.

“It’s okay, Layla. You’re safe.”

“Quin,” she sobbed, curling into his chest. “Oh god…”

Quin wrapped his arms around her and squeezed, but she barely felt it. The sorrow squeezed
so much harder.

Her cries grew louder as her body cringed, at the mercy of unrelenting emotion. So many emotions—overwhelming awe at how deeply her parents loved her; unbearable grief for the sacrifices they made to keep her safe; utter sadness for the way things turned out; and love… heart-gripping love for the people who’d given her life, the mom and dad she never knew. Love for the parents who were gone. Dead.

“Oh god,” she whimpered. “They were perfect… and I’ll never know what it’s like… to touch them and to let them touch me.”

Regret churned her stomach, throbbing her aching head and heart. She’d been harboring anger about her adoption—resentment toward her father and the disconnect she felt with her mother. Now the anger rebounded, smothering her in remorse, punishing her for daring to disrespect those who had blessed her with breath before forfeiting their own. And atonement was nowhere in sight. She’d never be able to look at her parents and tell them how much she loved them, how much their devotion meant to her. After everything they went through, they deserved to know—to hear it from their daughter’s lips that their undying love touched her; that she felt it pulse in her broken heart and course through her thriving veins. They hadn’t abandoned her; they’d saved her, and she’d give anything to let them know she understood the enormity of their sacrifice.

She sobbed harder, shoulders shaking. Then her ears started humming as her mom’s wedding ring quivered, expelling waves of vibrations up her arm. She opened her eyes, shocked and confused. Then a cooling sensation washed over fluctuating flesh, melting her tense muscles.

Quin’s shirt slipped from her grip, and he leaned back, running his bewildered gaze from her head to her toes. Layla looked down as well, and only then did she realize she was glowing. And singing! The humming wasn’t in her ears, but all around her, flowing from the ethereal mist that poured from the ring and blanketed her body.

Salty moisture blurred the beautiful sight, so Layla closed her eyes, sliding her vibrating hand to her chest. When the ring found her heart, warm affection and tranquility flooded her senses, and she unfurled, losing herself in the magic.

For a splendid moment in time, her broken heart and its aching shell vanished, and she was merely a soul, blissfully floating in her parents’ love. She could feel them as clearly as she felt anything else. They were more real than the bed beneath her. And while they didn’t speak, she could hear them. The mesmerizing mist and its magical message told her more than words could portray. Furthermore, if she could feel
them
, receive
their
message, surely they could feel her.

True or not, it brought Layla peace to believe it, to imagine her parents floating in her soul, absorbing all the love and appreciation she had to give, taking sublime comfort in knowing their hopes for their daughter had come true—she remained safe from wicked magicians and had found her family.

While Layla drifted on hope and love, as peaceful as a sleeping angel swaddled in fluffy clouds, she vowed to live her life in a way that would never forsake her parents’ sacrifices. They’d given her a gift beyond measure. No longer would she spend it in a rut. She’d find at least one thing to be thankful for every day, and she’d recall the undying love that paved her way.

Rhosewen’s ring stopped vibrating, the heavenly hum faded, and the feel-good magic ebbed, returning Layla to her liquid body, but she didn’t move or open her eyes. She just lay there with her hand over heart as silent tears streamed down her temples.

Despite her new lease on life and her vow to appreciate it, the emotional pain returned the moment the magic departed. Not even the strongest spells could make her forget the affectionate expression her mom wore when her heart burst with love, or the sorrowful and sweet goodbye her dad had given her before dying in a flash of agony. Those memories and many more would always be with her, and they would always hurt.

Layla knew the permanence of loss well. The day after Katherine’s passing, as she’d rocked in an old recliner that smelled of memories, Layla had realized with certainty that death was final, that no amount of wishing, hoping or praying could reverse what doctors could not. If ever she held faith, she’d lost it that day—the day she realized Katherine was gone, never to return, and she was alone, stuck in a world with no one to love.

Now, as she lay mourning those who’d given her life, realizing with certainty that they were gone, never to return, the hopelessness once again threatened to engulf her, to strip away any trace of faith she’d managed to retain. But this time Layla had something she’d lacked before. She had a family—a beautiful and kind family. No longer was she alone with no one to love.

She swallowed a lump and opened her eyes, finding her first reason to be thankful. Exquisitely stretched out beside her, his chest unobstructed and perfect for cuddling, Quin searched her face, his dark gaze shiny and deep.

“Hey,” he whispered, playing with one of her curls.

Layla tried to say hey back, but her throat was swollen shut.

“Do you need anything?” he asked.

She shook her head no, jarring more tears from her lids, and Quin reached over, softly wiping the moisture away. His tender touch intensified the emotions plucking on her raw heartstrings, and she turned her face into his hand, bursting into more sobs.

“I’m sorry,” she gasped, making a slobbery mess of his palm.

“Don’t be,” he replied, sliding his free hand under her head. Then he curled her into a ball and pulled her close, tucking her into his chest.

Layla continued to struggle with a never-ending supply of tears, but Quin’s alluring scent, strong heartbeat, and firm embrace cuddled her like a cozy cocoon, keeping her safe and warm as she mourned her old life and embraced the new—a life full of magic, family, and if she was really lucky… Quin.

Present Day—Oklahoma

The mundane neighborhood was silent—only a light spring breeze rustling the soft white blooms of Bradford pear trees, feathering manicured lawns and shadowed shrubs.

Dark and deserted, stood a small house with a covered porch, a
for sale
sign posted near the tidy walkway. The moonlit lawn ruffled in waves. Then five crimson cloaks appeared out of thin air, casting long shadows across the whispering grass. Glaring from the cape closest to the porch, were flaming orange eyes.

Agro’s nostrils flared as he scowled at the dark windows. He could sense the witch’s lingering energy, but she was gone. He soared to the porch, opening the front door with a wave of his hand. Then he floated inside, halting when he reached the witch’s deserted bedroom. The tiny closet and particle board dresser were empty, and the bed was bare, its mattress askew from the box-spring.

Agro landed beside the bed and leaned over the place she once slept, breathing in the sweet floral bouquet of pure power. His body tightened as his lungs quickened, drowning in her essence, and he burned to get his hands on the source, to inhale the flower at its freshest.

After memorizing every element of her scent, he straightened and started to turn, but paused when he noticed a streak of color poking from beneath the crooked mattress.

He waved his left hand, tossing the mattress aside. Then he froze, staring down at a dark-haired siren like no other. The way she gazed from the photograph—big, round emeralds deeper than the sagest soul yet swimming with innocence—made Agro shudder, simultaneously awed and aroused. Even through glossy paper he could tell she possessed the powers of the Heavens. Molded in their empyreal image, she could have been birthed by the Goddess Ava—Mother of the witches, the first of the breed.

Agro gingerly lifted the photograph, wondering why such beauty would hide under a mattress. Then he noticed an old crease running across the lower half of the portrait, obscuring the words
Class of ’07
. The graduation photo had been shoved under the mattress to flatten a fold. Lucky for him, it had been forgotten.

He ran a forefinger over the crease, magically repairing the damage. Then he carefully rolled it up, tucking it in his cloak as he returned to his guard. They stood where he left them, alertly scanning their surroundings, so Agro moved to the
for sale
sign and crouched.

“Farriss,” he hissed.

“Sir?” the henchman replied, kneeling beside him.

“Tell me again what you learned,” Agro demanded.

For the past week Farriss had been exploring Oklahoma, seeking information on a witch living a hexless life. He eventually made contact with a coven in southeast Oklahoma that knew of such a person. Two of their members had encountered an unaware witch while dining in Gander Creek—a tiny town near the Kansas border. One of the members had been more than happy to tell her story, claiming the witch held unusual beauty, both body and aura, and had looked and acted as though she knew nothing of magic.

Following the vague tip, Farriss ended up in Gander Creek’s lone watering hole, quickly learning his target—twenty-one-year-old Layla Callaway—had left town. He easily obtained her former address and place of employment, along with a brief rundown of her life. Then he delivered the bad news to Agro, who insisted on visiting Gander Creek himself.

“This house and the diner,” Farriss answered. “That’s all we have. The witch has been a recluse for three years. The locals in the tavern claim to know her as well as anyone, but they know nothing of her current whereabouts or activities. They didn’t even know she was leaving town until she was gone.”

“You’ll visit the diner,” Agro decided, “question her boss. Then you’ll pay this broker a visit—Gerald Greene.”

“Yes, sir,” Farriss agreed. “The diner’s open twenty-four hours. Would you like me to go now?”

“Yes, but I don’t want the witch hearing about your visit. After talking to the boss, convince him to keep his mouth shut. He’s not to tell his staff the subject of your interrogation. Tomorrow you’ll intimidate Mr. Greene. If his office is closed on Sundays, you’ll find his home.”

“Yes, sir.”

Agro looked at the abandoned house, a menacing growl rolling in his chest. Then he raised a palm, watching with pleasure as the insipid structure burst into raging flames.

~ * * * ~

Plain, dingy and too bright for the dark field surrounding it, the all night diner sat off a deserted highway, catering to local hell-raisers, early birds, and the occasional trucker.

Farriss descended behind the building and released his concealment spells, hovering an inch above cracked cement as he curled his lip at the overflowing dumpster. He transferred his cloak to his satchel, summoned polished leather shoes onto his feet, then adjusted the diamond cuffs of his Armani suit—the one he used to intimidate the hexless. After straightening his tie, he slicked his long hair into a low ponytail and secured it with a magical band. When facing down the powerless, he preferred to keep their focus on his saffron yellow eyes rather than his copper red hair.

Staying in the shadows, he headed for the front of the building then walked around the corner, surprised to find a line at the door. Apparently the local boozers had flocked to the diner after last call.

Farriss slowed his pace, hesitant to draw a crowd’s attention. Then he relaxed, realizing the circumstances could work in his favor. The intoxicated wouldn’t remember him, and the employees would rush to get him out of their hair.

He continued along his course, easily clearing a path through the wasted patrons, who ceased their carousing and stared with blurry eyes.

“Who’s this asshole?” one guy murmured, and the girl beside him speared his ribs.

“Shut up, ya dumbass. Dude looks like a fed.”

“Whadya know ’bout feds?” the cocky drunk returned. Then he and his friends burst into laughter, forgetting the sharp dressed man who entered the diner.

Farriss glanced around, taking a few seconds to assess the situation—multiple customers at every table, and only three servers, none of whom dressed like a boss. Through a metal framed window stood a cook, and behind him a dishwasher, but no manager.