Soulbound: A Lone Star Witch Novel (3 page)

I finally find the strength to wrench my gaze from his and as I do, I feel this pop, like I’ve ruptured something deep inside. I gasp, wrap my arms around myself in an instinctive bid for comfort. Declan doesn’t react at all, doesn’t move a muscle, but I think he felt it too.

When silver sparks of energy whip through the air around us, I’m sure of it.

Reaching a hand out, I capture one of the sparks. I can’t stop myself. I want to know, for just a second, what that kind of power feels like. It sizzles against my skin, crackling and spitting, burning me, until I open my fingers and let what’s left of the spark fall back out into the air.

My palm throbs where it touched me, white hot and painful. It takes all my energy not to flinch, but I manage it. It’s my turn not to react. Except, Declan knows—just as I did with him. He reaches out, gently cups my hand in his own. Strokes the fingers of his other hand lightly over the burn.

It should have been smooth, easy, but the second his skin brushes against my palm, the entire world ignites.
Fragments of memories I shouldn’t have rush at me—terrifying, fascinating,
compelling
. I close my eyes, try to block them out, but they’re still there behind my eyelids. Still there, deep in my mind as every nerve ending I have lights up like it’s Christmas at Rockefeller Center.

I order myself to pull away, to break the connection this one last time, but I can’t do it. The pleasure, woven as it is amidst the pain, staggers me and I can’t do anything but sit there and soak it all in.

The pain dissipates as suddenly as it came, but in its place…in its place is a silver Seba, identical in all but color to the one on Declan’s neck.

“What did you do?” I gasp, looking at the new mark on my palm. It shimmers in the moonlight, is the most beautiful—and frightening—thing I’ve ever seen.

“That wasn’t me, Xandra.” But he looks shaken as his fingers close around mine in a grip so possessive it makes my breath catch in my throat. I start to pull back—this is too weird, even for the daughter of witch royalty—but then I realize his hand is shaking even worse than mine. It’s enough, that hint of vulnerability, to keep me here when every instinct I have screams at me to flee.

“What—” My voice breaks and I clear my throat, try again. “What’s happening?” The sparks aren’t stopping. In fact, they’re spinning all around us like a freak midsummer snow flurry—growing hotter, more plentiful, the longer we’re touching.

Declan doesn’t answer, just shakes his head. I get the impression, right or wrong, that for all his power and experience he doesn’t know what’s going on any more than I do. I take a step back and electricity arcs between us, flowing from him into me and back again.

Every cell in my body is vibrating with it, every nerve ending screaming with the agony of it. Just when I think it’s over, that the electricity is going to rip us apart, he
does something even more unexpected. He leans forward, and slowly lowers his mouth to mine.

Rockefeller Center turns into Mardi Gras, the Fourth of July and New Year’s Eve all rolled into one. Too bad I never thought to wonder what happens after the ball drops.

Winter 2013

I
shouldn’t have drunk the damn tea.

I’d known it even as I took the first sip, but when I’d asked my mother what was in it, she’d sworn it was completely innocuous. Chamomile. Mint. A touch of lavender for luck.

Yeah, right.

But when I’d scented all three herbs in the cup she’d handed me, I’d decided to give her the benefit of the doubt. And while there’d been something else in there—something a little sweet that I couldn’t quite identify at the time—I’d just put it down to the agave syrup my mom’s been crazy about for months now.

I’m not a fan of the stuff but my mother looked so anxious, and so happy to see me after my six-month absence from Ipswitch, that I hadn’t been able to disappoint her. I’d drunk the entire stupid cup in one long gulp to make up for the unpleasant taste.

I’m paying for it now, big time, which makes me an even bigger fool today than I was eight years ago. Back then, I’d still been trying desperately to live up to her expectations of me, to be the witch she wanted me to be. In the last few years, though, I’ve given up on trying to be something I’m not and have instead built a life for myself that I’m proud of—away from my hometown.

Away from the magic that is so much a part of this place.

Which, I suppose, makes my momentary gullibility more understandable. It’s been a while since I’ve been around the insanity and I’ve obviously forgotten how bad it can get. It was a mistake to think that I would be safe here, even for a couple of days.

After all, from the moment I walked away from Ipswitch and the magical legacy I had no hopes of living up to, my mother has been desperate to get me back. She’ll stop at nothing to find a way to unlock the powers I’m perfectly content without, will do anything to turn me into the Magic Barbie she’s always wanted me to be. Maybe if I’d remembered that, instead of thinking about how much I’d missed her, I’d be in better shape now.

Live and learn, I suppose. And just to be clear, I’d
really
like the chance to live through this. I send the thought out into the universe even as I wonder if the number for Poison Control is the same as it was when I was a little kid.

I reach for the phone, but it falls to the ground before I can wrap my hand around it—whether by accident or design, I’m not sure. The fact that it’s perfectly believable that my mother would have charmed the phone to prevent me from calling for help is one more glaring piece of evidence against both of us.

Idiot, idiot, idiot…The word thrums through my brain, a triple-syllable repeating chorus that echoes the three-step cramping in my stomach.

Squeeze, tighten, release.

Squeeze, tighten, release.

I-Di-Ot.

I didn’t know anything could hurt this much. Had my mother inadvertently given me too much of whatever this is, or had I simply poisoned myself by drinking the
tea too quickly? I call out for help, then curl myself into a ball and pray for death. Maybe living isn’t all it’s cracked up to be after all—at least not if it comes with this.

“Hey, Xandra, what’s wrong?” Rachael asks from her spot near the door. Though she normally doesn’t have much use for me, her most prominent power
is
healing. My illness must have called to her, overcoming her usual lack of interest.

“Tea,” is all I manage to say, but it’s enough. She rushes into the room and lays a cool hand on my forehead.

“Mom’s crazy,” she tells me. “I swear, your latency has pushed her completely around the bend.”

“What did she give me?”

She looks at my pupils, shakes her head. “Best guess?” she asks grimly. “Belladonna.”

I shudder at the confirmation of my worst fear. Guaranteed to bring out even the most latent magic—or so the herbal practitioners promise—belladonna has been a staple in witch gardens for centuries. I know my mom grows it, but I thought she burned it to get to its essence. Never in a million years did it occur to me that she would actually go so far as to feed me the toxic plant. Especially since, so far, the only thing it’s brought out in me is my breakfast—an experience I really could have done without.

“What do I do?” I ask between cramps, forcing the words out from between my clenched jaws.

“I’m not sure. I need to look it up, and talk to her, find out how much she gave you. Probably no more than a berry or two, which isn’t enough to kill you when brewed in a tea—it’ll just make you really uncomfortable.”

Another pain hits and I pull my legs even tighter against my stomach. “I think…uncomfortable…is an understatement,” I gasp.

“I know, sweetie.” She heads into my bathroom and comes out a few seconds later with a damp washcloth, which she lays across my forehead. “I’ll be back in a little while, hopefully with an antidote to make this all go away.”

“Pilocarpine,” I tell her, because while I’m no good with actually wielding magic, I’m still up on all the plants and other ingredients that witches deal with—a leftover from when I was trying to be super-witch.

“I know. I’m just not sure if I can get my hands on any. I wouldn’t put it past Mom to have gotten rid of all of it before you got here. You might have to suffer through this without it.”

Terrific. I grit my teeth against another influx of pain and swear to myself that I am never coming back here again. I don’t care about command performances anymore, don’t care how much my mother pleads with me to return for special occasions. She’s crossed so far over the line this time that there is no way I’ll be able to overlook it. Winter Solstice or not, I am out of here the second I feel better.

If I ever do feel better, which seems doubtful right now. The pain is increasing as the belladonna works its way through my system, and I try not to think about what’s coming next. Blurred vision, dizziness, hallucinations, convulsions. Already, I can see the edges of the walls bending, curving in on me. I tell myself it isn’t real, that it’s just another side effect of the belladonna, but the truth is I don’t know what’s real anymore and what’s illusion.

It turns out my mother has indeed gotten rid of the pilocarpine and the potion my sister makes up to ease my pain barely touches the other symptoms. The next few hours pass in a blur as hallucination after hallucination works its way into my brain. Sometimes it’s like the wall, when I can tell myself that it isn’t really happening,
but other times my imaginings feel so real that I can’t help but get swept up in them.

Sweating, aching, trying desperately not to get sick again, I roll over and suddenly he’s here, right in front of me. Declan. Like the last eight years have never taken place. Like he hadn’t shown up, rocked my world and then abandoned me when I was at my most frightened and vulnerable.

Words of hate and fury burn inside of me, and I start to tell him what a bastard he is. But when I reach out to touch him he disappears, only to reappear next to the doorway. “Come with me,” he whispers and somehow I feel his warm breath against my ear, though he is all the way across the room.

I glare at him, say that I’ll never go anywhere with him again. He shakes his head sadly but it doesn’t matter because then we’re at the lake and he’s kissing me like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. I want to resist, to push him away, but it’s been so long and he feels so good that I end up wrapping myself around him, pressing my body flush against his and kissing him with all the emotion I’ve locked deep inside myself.

That’s when he disappears a second time and I’m left alone, stumbling barefoot through the rain-slicked forest in the middle of the night. It’s like a replay of the night I first met him. I’m barefoot and frightened, and a part of me knows that I need to turn back. Need to find help. But I can’t stop. There’s this compulsion pulling me forward, this current deep inside of me that won’t let me stray a foot off the given path.

My bare feet make a squishing sound as they sink into the waterlogged earth of the forest, followed by a loud, sucking noise as I wrestle them back out and take another step forward. Squish, suck, squish, suck…I concentrate on the noise in an effort to keep myself sane. To keep my attention focused on something besides what’s
waiting for me at the end of this ill-advised trip through the woods.

I’m wrong, I tell myself desperately, even as I continue to put one foot in front of the other. This isn’t the same. It can’t be. It just can’t be, because if it is, I’m afraid I’ll start screaming and never stop.

It’s been nearly eight years since the last time—the first time—and I—I squash the rest of the thought like I would a particularly disgusting bug. I’m not ready to go there yet, just can’t acknowledge that that is what this late-night foray into the patchy wilderness around Ipswitch is all about. But even as I refuse to give the thought purchase, even as I lie to myself, the truth niggles through.

Somehow, it always does.

The wind picks up, turning the heavy rain into whips that lash against me. It stings the bare skin of my arms and legs and not for the first time I wish I had taken the extra five minutes to change out of my ridiculous party dress. While the hot pink silk was perfect for my birthday party, it leaves much to be desired when tromping through a wet, snarly forest at close to dawn.

Or whatever time it is—I can’t be sure. Time is a nebulous thing for me at the best of occasions and now—out here—it’s anyone’s guess how many minutes have passed since I started on this journey.

In an effort to get my bearings, I glance behind me, hoping that I am still close enough to see the merry sparkle of the town lights in the distance. But, like the smooth, rich sound of Declan’s voice in my ear, they have faded into oblivion.

I am on my own.

But then, these days, I almost always am. It’s the curse of my gift. Or the gift of my curse—I haven’t yet figured out which arrangement of words is most accurate. In the end, I suppose it doesn’t really matter. I’m latent, powerless, undesirable in the world of magic. All of which I’m
normally fine with—I swear I am—but that doesn’t explain what I’m doing out here, stumbling around in the dark looking for God only knows what.

It’s not the same as last time, I tell myself again firmly. I’m in a different part of the forest and I’m not nineteen anymore. Nothing is going to happen out here. To me or anyone else.

The storm is crazy loud now, thunder booming and rain falling in torrents. Every once in a while lightning scrolls across the sky, illuminating the world I have walked so blindly into. More than once, between flashes, I have stumbled over shallow roots. More than once I have plowed straight into the thick trunk of a tree.

I put my hand to my head, where it still stings from my last close encounter with a branch. I wonder if I am bleeding—assume that I probably am—but the rain is coming down so hard and I am so wet that it makes it impossible to tell.

I’m not normally so careless, but this compulsion is making me clumsy. Making me slow and more than a little crazy. Or maybe that’s the belladonna?