Visions of Magic Read online

  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.

  “Witch! Witch! Witch!”

  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.

  Chapter 2

  When 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.

  Shea swallowed hard and asked, “Who are you?”

  “Torin.”

  “That tells me nothing,” she said. “Your name doesn’t explain who you are or why and how I’m here.”

  “You know how. I brought you here.”

  “Yeah, you did,” she said, remembering the flames surrounding her. “But why?”

  He shoved his hands into the back pockets of his jeans and shrugged. “It was that or let the crowd kill you. Would you have preferred that?”

  “No. No, I wouldn’t.” Shea inhaled slowly and then let the air slide from her lungs. She remembered the mob circling her—and he was right. They would have
killed her—with the blessing of the MPs. After all, a dead witch meant no paperwork.

  “You have nothing to fear from me,” he said. “Surely you know that.”

  “How would I know that?” She shook her head and concentrated on the chill dampness seeping into her body from the balcony railing. At least that was tangible. Real. Nothing else seemed that way at the moment. “One minute I’m about to get stoned to death or something and the next I’m standing in fire and you’re . . .” She scrubbed her hands up and down her upper arms in a futile attempt to rid herself of the bone-deep cold that permeated her body. “Oh, God. You were in that fire.”

  “Yes.”

  “So was I! But you’re not burned.” She looked down at her hands as if to reassure herself again that her skin wasn’t blistered and charred. “Neither am I. How is that possible?”

  “Long story,” he said. “But we’ll have time for it all. Now that you’re here—”

  “Wherever ‘here’ is,” she muttered.

  “My home. You’re in Malibu. You’re safe.”

  “And I should take your word for that?”

  “I saved you, didn’t I?” His mouth tipped briefly to one side in a smile that lived and died in an instant. “I should get points for that.”

  “If a hungry tiger saved me from a bear, should I be relieved?” Shaking her head, she said, “No, I don’t think so. And what happened to the man who grabbed me in the parking lot and—” Her memory dredged up the horrifying images. “I—I—”

  “Set him on fire,” he finished for her.

  “Oh, God, I did . . .” She caught her breath, then locked her gaze with his. “Like Aunt Mairi. But I didn’t mean to. Didn’t even try to. How could I have known that would happen?”

  “You’ve had the dreams,” he said, moving closer still until she was no more than an arm’s reach away. “You felt changes rippling through your body. I know you have because the Awakening is on you.”

  “Awakening?” She knew that word. But how? And was that really the most important consideration at the moment?

  “The Awakening was foretold centuries ago. When the last great coven cast a spell of atonement.”

  Atonement. She shivered as he spoke, his words creating images in her mind. Images that were at once foreign and familiar.

  “Each witch was to live without magic through many lifetimes until this year. This time.”

  “No,” she whispered, though everything in her said yes.

  “Each of you will awaken in turn,” he continued. His voice was impossible to ignore; his pale eyes somehow swirled with power. “One every thirty days until the atonement is complete and your tasks fulfilled.”

  “Tasks?” Shea shook her head—this was crazy. All of it. Then why, something in her asked, did it feel so right?

  “You are the first, Shea. You are the hope of the coven.”

  “You’re wrong. This is a trick. The MPs are trying to make me look guilty and you’re in it somehow.”

  His features went cold and hard and his voice dropped several notches. “I do not work with the Magic Police. You think I would hand over a woman to them?”

  “Maybe,” Shea argued, though something was telling her she was wrong about him. That she should trust him. Still, trusting people these days was a dangerous business.

  And what he had told her couldn’t be true. This had to be an elaborate plot. Machinations from the feds.

  It was the Salem witch trials all over again. Only this time the hysteria had spread until it circled the globe. Every country in the world was actively pursuing women who “might” be witches. And God help the ones who actually were.

  “None of this makes sense,” she whispered, more to herself than to him. “I’m not a witch. I’m not.”

  “Denial alters nothing. You are who you were always meant to be.”

  She threw her head back and glared at him. “And what’s that?”

  “Mine,” he said.

  Yes, her body answered. Her blood felt thick and hot in her veins and her heartbeat was jittering crazily in her chest. Staring up into those pale gray eyes unsettled her and she wondered if he knew that and played on it. How many other women had he brought here? How many others before her had he swept in and carried off?

  “I’m not yours. I’m not anyone’s,” she argued as she eased to one side, trying to put some distance between them. It didn’t matter what her body felt; her mind was in charge and that was how it was going to stay. “And I’m not a witch. I didn’t set fire to that man.”

  “You did,” he told her, his voice deep and even. “You’re a hereditary witch, Shea Jameson. The power runs through your bloodline. Your aunt, your mother, you. Even now, I can feel your power emerging. Growing. You feel it, too.”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head wildly and looking around her for an escape that simply wasn’t there. “Look, ever since my aunt Mairi was . . . burned at the stake, people have been watching me. The MPs. The Bureau of Witchcraft. Right after she died, I even changed my name and hid for a while. But even BOW didn’t seem interested in me anymore. It’s been ten years since Mairi died and I’ve never shown any sign of power. And I don’t feel a damn thing emerging.”

  “You’re lying. To me. And to yourself.” He braced his hands on the railing on either side of her, effectively trapping her and holding her in place. “I was at the school. I watched the man approach. I waited for your power to erupt. For your survival instincts to force you to remember who and what you are.”

  Shea glared up at him. “You watched? You saw that man attack me and you did nothing?”

  “It was necessary for me to stand back while you unlocked your powers. You’ve been fighting against their emergence for too long.”

  “That man died!”

  “He was nothing,” Torin said with a barely concealed sneer. “A predator. A human who lived his life on the misery of others. If you had not stopped him, he would have brutalized more women as he had done to others before you.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” she argued, realizing that she was never going to be able to get the mental pictures of what she’d done to that man out of her head. “That doesn’t give me the right to—”

  “Survive?” He snapped the word at her and Shea shoved ineffectually at his broad chest. He didn’t even budge. But the contact between them sent heat flashing through her, like a sudden fever, enough so that she had to take a breath before she felt steady enough to say, “I didn’t mean to kill him.”

  “Then master your powers before it happens again.”

  “Master something I didn’t know I had until today?” She laughed shortly and felt the sound scrape against her throat. “Of course. Why didn’t I think of that?” She sighed, feeling the crushing weight of this oh, so miserable day fall down on top of her.

  “You’re not alone in this,” he said softly, drawing her eyes up to his again. “As I’ve said, I am Torin. Your Eternal.”

  “My Eternal,” she repeated tiredly. “What’s that mean exactly?”

  “It means you are right where you are supposed to be, Shea Jameson.” He touched her cheek and she could have sworn she felt the heat of flames rising up in her again. “I will stand beside you in this.”

  God, it was tempting to believe. To trust. To think that she wouldn’t have to stand alone against whatever would happen next. But she couldn’t do that. Couldn’t risk it. Though her body clamored for his, though her hands itched to reach out and touch him, she refused. She was forced to fight her own attraction to the man just to keep her mind straight.

  “I’m just supposed to trust you?” She had gone from seriously deep trouble at the school to being in way over her head here. “I don’t even know where you’ve taken me.”

  “We’re not strangers,” he said, each word tight with banked emotions. “Your soul knows me. As you will. Your memories will begin to return now as your power grows.”

  “Right. Memories.” She bit down hard on her
bottom lip, trying to convince herself she was dreaming. But the pain that stabbed her mouth was proof enough that this was all real.

  Her skin was buzzing at his nearness, as if she were reacting to an electrical charge. The color of his eyes seemed to swirl like gray clouds in a high wind. His mouth was firm and full and fixed in a grim slash that told her he wasn’t feeling much happier than she was.

  “This is not a dream,” he told her as if he knew exactly what she’d been thinking.

  “Nightmare, then?”

  “Ask yourself why you’re not afraid of me.”

  “Who says I’m not?” She lifted her chin, daring him to contradict her.

  “I do. It’s not fear I feel coming from you, but arousal.”

  She wouldn’t even respond to that.

  “I look familiar to you, yes?” he asked, and took her upper arms in a firm grip.

  His touch opened up something inside her. She felt the barest flicker of recognition from deep within. That sense of familiarity was back and she knew, deep in her soul, that he was telling her the truth. There was a connection between them. Maybe she would remember him, eventually. But the question was, what exactly would she recall? Was he to be trusted, as he said? Or would her memories tell her to stay as far away from the sexually powerful man as possible?

  “No,” she said softly, meeting that strange gray stare. “I don’t know you. I don’t want to know you. I just want to leave.”

  “And go where?” He slid his hands up her body until he was cupping her cheeks in his big palms. She felt the overwhelming rush of heat slicing from his body into hers and she nearly trembled at the force of it.

  But she wasn’t going to give in to something that made zero sense to her. This was all some sort of bizarre mind game. And he was the puppet master. In the years since witchcraft had been revealed to the world, the crazies had really come out of the closet. “That’s none of your business.”

  “Everything about you is my business, Shea.”

  When she sucked in a gulp of air, the fear she tasted was dark and bitter. “What do you want from me?”