Visions of Magic (2 page)

“Amanda,” Shea asked quietly, “do you have anyone you can stay with?”

The girl nodded. “My grandma. The police took me there last night. Grandma didn't want me to come to school today, but I did anyway and everyone's being so mean . . .” She shook her head and frowned in spite of her tears. A flash of anger dazzled her damp eyes. “My mom's not evil. I don't care what they say. She didn't do anything wrong. I would know.”

Shea wasn't so sure of that. These days, secrets were all that kept some women alive. But even if Amanda was right and her mother was innocent, there was little chance she'd be released. Still, what was important now was Amanda's safety. The girl had already learned one harsh lesson today—
don't trust anyone.
Her friends had turned on her and soon everyone else would, too. Once word got out about her mother being taken, the girl would be in danger from so many different directions, she'd never find shelter.

“Amanda,” Shea whispered fiercely, “don't come back to school tomorrow. Go to your grandmother's and stay there.”

“But I have to help my mom,” the girl argued. “I thought you could go with me to the principal and we could tell her that my mom's not what they think. Mom's the president of the PTA!”

Shea winced as the girl's voice rose. She couldn't afford for anyone to see them. Couldn't risk being seen helping the child of a detainee. Leaning down, she caught Amanda's eye and said, “Your mom would want you to be safe, wouldn't she?”

“Yeah . . .”

“Then that's the best thing you can do for her.”

“I don't know . . .”

“Amanda, listen to me,” Shea said, her words coming faster now as the creeping sensation of being watched flooded back into her system. “There's nothing we can do to help your mom right now. The best thing for everyone is for you to leave here and go straight to your grandmother's. Okay? No stops. No talking to anyone.”

“But—”

A door opened down the hall and Shea glanced toward the sound. Her stomach pitched with nerves as she spotted the school principal coming out of her office. Lindsay Talbot's eyes narrowed as she noticed Amanda and Shea huddled together, speaking in whispers. Instantly Ms. Talbot darted back into her office.

“Just go, Amanda,” she said, giving the girl's shoulder a quick squeeze. “Go now.”

The girl picked up on the urgency in Shea's voice, nodded briefly, then turned and ran down the hall toward the back door. Once she was gone, Shea took a deep breath, steeled herself and walked in the opposite direction. Her heels clicked on the tile floor as she neared the glass wall of the school's office. The front door was only a few feet away and the sunlit afternoon shone like a beacon of safety. She was leaving, no matter what, she thought, but she had to know what Ms. Talbot was doing.

Shea glanced through the office windows in time to see the principal hang up the phone. Then the woman turned around, met Shea's gaze and gave her a catabout-to-eat-a-canary smile.

Just like that, she knew it was over.

All of it.

Shea had been happy here. For a while. She enjoyed spending her days with the kids. She had convinced herself over the last year and a half that she'd finally found safety. That her normal behavior, her gift for teaching, was enough to prove to everyone that she was nothing more than she claimed to be. A sixth-grade science teacher.

But as she met Lindsay Talbot's harsh stare, she felt the old familiar stir of panic. Fear rushed through her, churning her stomach, making her hands damp and drying out her mouth. She had to run.

Again.

She let her papers fall to the floor in a soft rustle of sound, then tightened her grip on her shoulder bag and raced for the front door. As her hand pushed the cold steel bar, she heard Lindsay Talbot call out behind her, “You won't get away. They're coming.”

“I know,” Shea murmured, but she ran anyway. What else could she do? If she stayed, she would end up with Amanda's mother. Just one more woman locked away with no hope of ever getting out.

Outside, she squinted at the beam of sunlight that slanted into her eyes, and took the steps down to the sidewalk at a dead run. She dug into her purse as she turned toward the parking lot, blindly fumbling for her keys. Her only hope was to be gone before the MPs arrived. It would take them time to find her and in that time she would disappear. She'd done it before and she could do it again. Dye her hair, change her name, find a new identity and lose herself in some other city.

She wouldn't go back to her apartment. They'd be expecting her to, but she wasn't that stupid. Besides, she didn't need anything from her home. She traveled light these days. A woman constantly on the move couldn't afford to drag mementos from one place to the next. Instead, she kept a packed suitcase in her car trunk and a stash of emergency cash tucked into her bra at all times, on the off chance that she'd have to leave in a hurry.

A cold wind rushed at her, pulling her long hair free of the knot she kept it in. Slate gray clouds rolled in off the ocean and seagulls wheeled and dipped overhead. She hardly noticed. Parents were still milling around out front, picking up their kids, but Shea ran past them all, ignoring those who spoke to her.

Her car was at the far end of the parking lot, closest to the back exit. She was always prepared to run—to slip away while her pursuers were coming in the front. She was sprinting now, her heart hammering in her chest, breath rattling in her lungs. She held her keys so tightly the jagged edges dug into her palm.

The soles of her shoes slid unsteadily on the gravellaced asphalt, but she kept moving. One thought pulsed through her mind.
Run. Run and don't look back.

Her gaze fixed on her nondescript beige two-door compact, she never saw the man who leapt out at her from behind another car. He pushed her down and her knees hit the asphalt with a grinding slide that tore open her skin and sent pain shooting along her legs.

His hands reached for her as a deep voice muttered, “Gimme the purse and you can go.”

Absently, she heard voices rising in the distance as parents saw the man attacking her.
Oh, God, not now,
she thought as she turned over and stared up into the wild eyes of a junkie who desperately needed money. She couldn't deal with this now. There was too much attention on her.

He pulled a knife as if he sensed she was hesitating. “Give me the money
now
.”

Shea shook her head, and when he reached for her again, she instinctively lifted both hands as if to push him off and away. But she never made contact with him. She didn't need to. A surge of energy suddenly pulsed through her and shot from her fingertips. As a
whoosh
of sound erupted, the man in front of her erupted into flames.

Shea stared up at him, horrified by what was happening. By what she'd
done.
His screams tore through the air as he tried to run from the fire. But it only fed the flames consuming him and as his shrieks rose higher and higher, Shea staggered to her feet, glanced down at her hands and shuddered.

That was when she heard it.

The chanting.

Over the sounds of the dying man's cries, voices roared together, getting louder and louder as she was surrounded. One word thundered out around her, hammering at her mind and soul, reducing her to a terror she hadn't known in ten years.

She looked up into the faces of her students' parents as they circled her. People she knew. People she liked. Now, though, she hardly recognized them. Their features were twisted into masks of hatred and panic and their voices joined together to shout their accusation.

Shea fought for air as the mob tightened around her. There was no way out now. She was going to die. And if the crowd didn't kill her, then the MPs would take her away when they arrived and she would be as good as dead anyway. It was over. The years of terror and dread, the hiding, the praying, the constant worrying about survival.

“Stop!” she shouted, her voice raw with horror at what she'd done. At what they were about to do to her. “I didn't do anything!”

A useless argument, since they'd all seen what had happened. But how? How had she done it? She wasn't a witch. She was just . . . her. “If I had power, wouldn't I be using it now?”

Some of the people around her seemed to consider that and their expressions reflected worry. It was not what Shea had been after. If they were worried about their own safety, they'd be just that much more eager to kill her.

Her head whipped from side to side, desperately looking for a way out of this. But she couldn't find one. In the distance she heard the wail of sirens that signaled the MPs' imminent arrival. And the Magic Police weren't going to let her get away. They might save her from the mob. On the other hand, they might stand back and let these everyday, ordinary people solve their problem for them.

Frantic, she stumbled back as the crowd pushed in until she realized they were herding her closer to the burning man stretched out on the asphalt. Heat from the flames reached for her. The stench of burning flesh stained the air. Shea looked from the dead man to the crowd and back again and knew that whatever happened next, she deserved it.

The fire suddenly erupted, growing until hungry licks of orange and red flames leapt and jumped more than six feet high. Someone in the crowd screamed. Shea jolted. Black cars with flashing yellow lights raced into the driveway and then screeched to a stop. Men in black uniforms piled out and pointed guns, but they were the least of her problems now.

Flames reached for Shea. Engulfed her. The roar of the quickening fire deafened her to her surroundings. She screamed and looked up into a pair of pale gray eyes reflecting the shifting colors of the flames. She felt hard, strong arms wrap around her, as a deep voice whispered, “Close your eyes.”

“Good idea,” she answered, then fainted for the first time in her life.

W
hen Shea woke up, it was dark outside. There was a lamp burning on the bedside table and the Tiffanyglass shade threw softly colored patterns on the ceiling. She sat up, bracing her hands against the silky quilt beneath her. Which meant she was on a bed.
Whose
bed?

Certainly not her own. She glanced down and sighed thankfully as she realized she was still wearing her white blouse and black skirt. Her scraped knees had been treated and her low-heeled black pumps were still on her feet.

Then her gaze shot around the room. It was big, beautiful and filled with shadows. Nerves jittering in the pit of her stomach, Shea pushed herself off the mattress, walked to the closest window and peered out into the darkness. Moonlight spilled onto the ocean, painting the crashing waves in an eerie, phosphorescent light. There was a balcony outside her window and when she opened the doors to step outside, she noticed the garden below. The roar of the waves slamming into the cliffs sounded like the heartbeat of a giant and set her own into a fastpaced rhythm.

“Where the hell
am
I and how did I get here?” She couldn't think. Couldn't recall what had happened to her. Then suddenly, in a rush, images poured into her mind and she remembered feeling the heat surround her. Flames jumping into the air, flashing across her skin. The strong arms around her middle. The deep voice ringing in her ears.

This was so much worse than she'd thought.

Whoever—whatever—had taken her from the parking lot was probably close by. Which meant what, exactly? Clearly she wasn't in jail or in one of the internment camps set up across the country. She'd heard enough whispers about those places to know they were hardly this luxurious. Clearly the MPs hadn't captured her. So who was it who had taken her? And to where?

The ocean told her nothing. It was a big coast, after all. She looked over the edge of the balcony and considered clambering out over the rail, hanging by her hands and dropping down. The bushes would break her fall. Probably. She could do it. It wasn't
that
far.

“You won't jump.”

Shea jolted and spun around at the sound of the voice. A man stood in the middle of the room. Well over six feet tall, he looked tough, dangerous and too damn good. But it wasn't just the raw sexual energy shimmering off of him in thick waves that drew her attention. It was the sense of . . . familiarity she felt. As if she knew him.
Had
known him. His black hair hung to his shoulders, his broad chest was covered by a bloodred shirt and his faded black jeans clung to muscular thighs. His arms were folded across his chest and his pale gray eyes were fixed on her.

“It's you,” she said, remembering now how the reflection of the flames engulfing her had danced in his eyes. That explained the familiarity, she told herself. “You were there. You got me away from that mob.”

“I did.”

“Why? Not that I'm not grateful, but why would you do that for a stranger?”

“You're not a stranger,” he said, his deep voice rumbling through the room with all the power of the crashing waves below.

“But I don't know you.”

He took a step toward her and Shea instinctively backed up until she felt the cold, damp balcony railing slam into the small of her back.

“You do,” he insisted, never taking his mesmerizing eyes off her. “Your body recognizes mine even if your mind is still closed to me.”

Shea was forced to admit that he was right about that much, anyway. The sense of recognition she felt toward him went deeper than just the incident from that afternoon. She couldn't understand it. She was sure she'd never seen him before, and yet there was . . . something. The closer he came, the more her body practically hummed with anticipation. But she deliberately ignored it. Sex wasn't the first thing on her mind at the moment. Terror was superseding everything else.