Deception (26 page)

Moisture stung every alert eye in the clearing, and Cordelia's tears ran like rivers. “I'm so sorry, baby. No, none of it's okay. I'm not okay with those things happening to her, and I'm not okay with what it's doing to you and the rest of our family. This whole situation is horrible.”

“It's worse than that,” Quin corrected, “and I don't know how to make it better for her . . . ” His throat tightened, strangling the words as he gripped his heavy chest. “All I want to do is help, but I don't know how.” He moved his lips closer to her heart, wishing he could kiss it, cuddle it, and hear its beautiful beats echo in his head. “I want to make it better,” he whispered. Then he fell silent as he stared at her face, hoping her mind wasn't reliving her terrifying day.

Her lips and cheeks were pale, and he yearned like never before to kiss a bright blush into them, or at least a dose of magical warmth. She had to be freezing, and he couldn’t cover her with his cloak while the others healed injuries.

He took a chance and leaned in, barely touching his lips to hers. Then he slowly urged soothing warmth throughout her body. She remained still; not even a flutter from her long lashes, so he moved away and breathed a sigh of inadequate relief.

He wanted to get her out of there, far away from the dreadful clearing full of terrifying memories. She should never have to see it again.

“How much longer?” he asked, glancing at Serafin, who’d done wonders with her burnt arm.

“Hell,” Serafin answered, “we could be here all night if we keep going until she’s well.”

“That’s not an option,” Catigern cut in, watching Zenith approach. “There’s movement five miles to the east.”

“Then it’s time to go,” Serafin conceded.

Quin dug into his bag and retrieved his cloak. “May I hold her? Hovering her home will take forever.”

“Give it a try,” Serafin suggested. “Worst-case scenario – she wakes up, and we find somewhere close to stay the night.”

“Right,” Quin breathed. Then he looked to the family members standing nearby, pinpointing his aunt Karena. “If this works, I'm taking her to the inn. She needs to heal without running from the Unforgivables.”

“Of course,” Karena agreed. “I'll contact Dion before you get there; have her book the royal suite under my name. You can go straight to the room.”

“Thank you.” He glanced between his parents and Layla's grandparents. “Stick with me in case she wakes up. I'm going to fly with my back to the ground, so I’ll need help with my sense of direction.”

The golden group nodded, so Quin slowly stood while raising Layla with him. He watched her eyelids as they both floated several feet into the air. Then he leaned back and directed his horizontal body beneath hers. Slowly and carefully, he rotated her, finding her face among a black curtain of spirals. Then he lowered her to his torso, turning her head so she could rest her unbroken cheek on his heart. After taking an even breath, he slowly let it out while settling her weight on him.

She didn’t budge, and he sighed as he magically draped his cloak over her. Now, if he could manage to hold her without waking her, he could get her out of there.

He wrapped his arms around her back, securing her with gentle pressure, and after waiting a moment to make sure she wasn't stirring, he concealed their bodies and flew higher, hoping he’d make it to Cannon Beach before consciousness found his battered angel.

Chapter 17

For the second time in one night, Guthrie’s life was on the line, a mere wave away from being snuffed out.

He’d managed to gather the soldiers Agro requested – a hundred dimwitted followers not much different from himself. But he was thirty minutes late getting the soldiers to the Clatsop State Forest, a slight that would have incited death had Agro actually expected him to succeed. The request to gather and transport a hundred soldiers in less than twenty-four hours had been ludicrous, but Guthrie hadn’t survived forty-two years in Agro’s army by quitting when life got tough. So, without a wink of sleep or food in his belly, Guthrie had completed his task – albeit thirty minutes late – and Agro had been so overcome by the abundance of spellcasters at his beck and call, he forgot Guthrie’s slight and called for every able-bodied soldier to head for the Conn/Kavanagh coven.

One-hundred-and-fifty magicians strong, Agro’s army surrounded the coven’s property and flew inward, trapping everyone inside. But the closer they drew, the clearer it became – no one was there to trap.

The lack of guards was the first clue. The lack of runners was the second. Then, when Agro landed on an empty lawn, all hell broke loose.

“Where are they?” he demanded, flashing his fiery gaze around. He scanned the soldiers who’d approached from the north, east and south. “Did you intercept anyone?”

“No, sir,” they answered.

“Did you see anyone?” Agro pressed, his aura boiling with hues to match his crimson cloak.

“No, sir,” the soldiers repeated.

Agro growled and curled his biceps, pointing flexed claws toward the sky.

“Search the houses,” he commanded, heading for the two-story Victorian.

Doors flew open as soldiers obeyed, and Guthrie followed Agro. They walked down a pathway parting a rose garden, then up the stairs to a large porch with a swing. Guthrie barely recalled the days when he lived in a community with porches, swings and gardens – luxuries members of the Dark Elite no longer knew.

They entered the house, and Agro lifted his nose in the air. “She’s here,” he hissed, heading for the hallway.

Guthrie tensed for an ambush. The witch was, after all, a source of unimaginable power. He motioned for the soldiers following him to spread out and search the house, and Agro sniffed his way down the corridor, stopping at the first door on the right.

“Here,” he said, slipping into the room.

Guthrie followed to find his boss smelling the bed, and he had to stifle a laugh as he checked the closet and bathroom. One more loose screw and Agro would start wiggling in the witch’s clothes like a cat in heat. The man was obsessed beyond reason.

“She sleeps here,” Agro concluded, “with a wizard.”

He flipped his gaze to a nearby pile of luggage, and Guthrie rolled his eyes.
Oh boy, here we go
.

But Agro didn’t empty the bags and roll in the clothes. Instead, he stormed from the bedroom and began shouting at the soldiers searching the house. “Find anyone?”

“No, sir.”

“Well check again.” He flew to the lawn and questioned those searching the other houses.

A few soldiers held up unconscious felines and pointed out sedated canines, but the coven members were nowhere to be found.

Guthrie stood behind Agro, watching his aura darken and stretch as his old muscles bulged. Then the spells started flying, and all Guthrie could do was stand there and watch as soldier after soldier fell victim to Agro’s rage. They couldn’t escape the barrage of uncontrolled magic exploding from their boss’ hands, no matter how low they ducked or where they scattered.

Guthrie didn’t scatter. Nor did he waste time hoping Agro’s spells wouldn’t hit him. Members of the Dark Elite didn’t have the luxury of hope, and if one managed such a thing, it likely killed them before saving them.

The same was true for promotions. Guthrie saw years slip off his life the moment Agro commanded him to replace Farriss. Now, whether Guthrie lived or died was simply a matter of whether or not Agro’s angry hands swept a certain way.

Magicians dropped to the lawn like dry pine needles – some ablaze, some frozen, some jolting or bleeding. And the surrounding houses caught what the soldiers didn’t. Wood splintered, porches collapsed, and a house to the east burst into flames.

Guthrie closed his eyes and fought the urge to shake his head. Over fifty of the hundred soldiers he’d gathered were dead or dying, and if Agro didn’t stop soon, the other fifty would join their comrades in the afterlife.

Guthrie turned his attention to Silestra. She’d sensed the tension and was slithering toward his wrist, but he redirected her downward, compelling her to leave him to his fate and save herself. She obeyed, but Guthrie knew she didn’t want to. Pets were loyal that way and often died in place of their owners, a point proven by a few of the Conn/Kavanagh pets. Two felines – one orange, one black – had been used as impromptu shields by a foolish soldier, who now lay still beside his charred armor.

By the time Agro ran out of steam, seventy-nine soldiers were dead or wounded, and most of the others were crouched in fear. Only a few stood upright, those who’d spent enough years in the Dark Elite to grow numb to terror, their hearts hardened and conditioned by violence and risk until nothing, not even death’s steely scythe, could pierce their cold exterior.

“Fuck,” Agro yelled, throwing one more spell in the air. Then he found Guthrie. “Gather the wounded; haul them to camp.”

“And the dead?” Guthrie asked, glancing at a nearby body – a witch he’d known for thirty years. She’d had a mouth on her like no other and could drink wizards under the table. She’d been passionate about everything – from the way she made love to the way she fought. Guthrie knew, because he’d felt the sweep of her lips as well as the sting of her fists.

“Leave them,” Agro answered, and Guthrie looked away from the witch’s pale lips.

“Someone extinguish those fires,” Agro shouted. “The last thing we need is hexless involvement.”

Soldiers rushed to obey, and Agro turned to Guthrie. “Before you leave, gather an article of the witch’s clothing for the soothsayer.”

Sure, Guthrie thought, for the soothsayer. “Yes, sir,” he agreed, retrieving Silestra from the grass. Then he set himself to the tasks Agro demanded of him, just as he had for the past forty-two years, just as all those around him would always do. Agro was the top dog – his life a plethora of take without any give. From where Guthrie stood, that wasn’t such a bad way to live.

As luck… or atonement would have it, Layla remained unconscious for the trip to Cannon Beach and was still sleeping when Quin floated into the master bedroom of Karena’s largest suite. He didn't want to lay Layla down. He wanted to keep her on his chest all night… forever, but her grandparents had followed him into the room and were preparing to heal her.

He took a deep breath. Then he hovered her from his chest and carefully turned her over. After settling her weight on the bed, he slowly descended to the spot beside her.

“Do you plan on staying there?” Serafin asked. “If so, we’ll need to hatch a plan to work around you.”

Quin stayed silent as he stared at her profile, counting the rhythmic breaths puffing through her chapped lips. Then he floated from the bed and landed beside it. “Just do whatever you have to do to make her better.”

“I think we should wait on the more painful injuries,” Serafin suggested. “Now that she’s lying still, we can numb them and give her a decent stretch of rest while we work on surface injuries, those we can heal with a light touch.”

Quin nodded, but didn’t say anything.

“That’s a good idea,” Cordelia advocated. “She deserves a stretch of peace. I’ll go get everyone drinks.” A few silent seconds passed. Then she spoke again. “You could use some rest, too, Quinlan.”

He shook his head, pacing as he rubbed the tension in his neck.

Morrigan looked him over then returned her attention to Layla. “There’s nothing you can do right now, Quinlan.”

Quin understood the motivation behind their insistence – both Morrigan and his mom had doted on him from day one – but they were crazy if they thought he’d be able to nap. “I’m not sleeping again until I see her eyes.” He threw a short glance at his mom. “I’ll take some water, please.”

She lowered her gaze and reached for Kemble’s hand. “Of course. How about you guys? Any special requests?”

“Coffee,” a few of them mumbled. Then Morrigan’s stomach growled, prompting Caitrin to add sandwiches to the order.

“We’ll be in the kitchen,” Kemble replied, urging Cordelia through the door.

Quin continued pacing while watching the bed. Layla’s grandparents surrounded her – three of them gently healing external injuries while Serafin numbed the most painful afflictions – so Quin couldn’t see all of her; just bruised bits and pieces and tangled locks of hair. The absence of the concealed parts was torture; the distance between him and his angel agonizing. He was a parched man who’d found an oasis but couldn’t draw close enough to dip his hand in and drink.

Returning with refreshments, Kemble and Cordelia quietly passed them out then got comfortable on a chaise lounge. Quin took a drink before setting his glass aside. Then he stifled an impatient groan when Layla’s grandparents paused their task to gulp down sandwiches.

The next hour of healing passed in silence. Then a knock on the door shattered the stillness. Quin tensed and glanced at the clock – 4:00 am. He walked to the window and moved the curtain an inch from the wall, searching the air outside, and Layla’s grandparents formed a line at the end of the bed. Kemble and Cordelia headed for the parlor, and Quin walked to the bedroom door to listen.

“It’s Skyla,” Kemble called.

Quin breathed and walked to the bed, taking the opportunity to look at Layla without anyone getting in the way.

Kemble and Cordelia returned, accompanied by Skyla, who paused in the doorway and sadly waved.