Visions of Magic

Table of Contents

 

 

“A new voice in dark paranormal, Regan Hastings brings sizzle and magic to the genre.”

—
New York Times
bestselling author Christina Dodd

 

 

His touch opened up something inside her. The barest flicker of recognition deep within. The sense of familiarity was back and she knew, in her soul, that he was telling her the truth. 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 charged 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 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. “That's none of your business.”

“Everything about you is my business, Shea.”

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

“Everything,” he admitted, “and I will accept nothing less.”

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First published by Signet Eclipse, an imprint of New American Library,

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First Printing, February 2011

Copyright © Maureen Child, 2011

eISBN : 978-1-101-48630-6

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There are a lot of people I'd love to mention here, but then the acknowledgment page would be as long as the book.. . .But some names must be named.

To my husband and family, a huge thank-you for putting up with me when I'm on deadline and for always believing.

Great friends Susan Mallery, Kate Carlisle, Christine Rimmer and Teresa Southwick—as a plot group, you're all amazing. As friends, you're all irreplaceable. Thanks so much for keeping me on track.. . .

Thank you to the practicing Wiccans I spoke to during my research. I appreciate all of your time and advice. And thanks for understanding that a fiction writer takes the facts and then spins them the way she wants them to be for her story.

Many thanks to my agent, Donna Bagdasarian, who loved this story and pushed me to make it even bigger—then went out and fought for it.

And a big thank-you to Kerry Donovan, my editor, who helped make this book the best it could be, by asking all the right questions. To Claire Zion and everyone at NAL for all their hard work and their belief in this series. And to the art depertment for the amazing cover—thank you all.

A
fter centuries of waiting, Torin's patience was long dead. The woman he craved was, at last, almost his. For hundreds of years, he'd wandered the far reaches of the globe, a shadow in his woman's life, always alert for signs of the magic stirring. Now that the long-anticipated moment had come, to have the Awakening strike on a tidy suburban street in Long Beach, California, seemed almost a joke. One he didn't find amusing.

Across the street from him, a bell rang and hundreds of schoolchildren spilled from a pale green stucco building like ants from a hill. Their bright laughter sounded sharp to a man already on a razor's edge. His gray eyes narrowed behind his dark glasses as he watched the kids scatter in the sunlight. The last barrier between him and his woman had fallen. His skin felt electrified with the rising of power in the air. His blood hummed and if he'd had a heartbeat, it would have been thundering in his chest.

A woman hurried past him to gather up her child and gave him a quick, appraising glance. Her steps quickened, her gaze shifted from him and she rushed her child away as if they were being chased by demons.

He knew what people saw when they looked at him.

Taller than most men, he had long, dark hair that fell loose to his shoulders. He wore a black T-shirt that clung to the hard muscles of his chest and abs. His black jeans and scuffed shit-kicker boots finished off the dangerous image. His face was lean and hard, sculpted with sharp planes and angles and his pale gray eyes gave away none of his thoughts.

He looked exactly what he was.

A warrior.

A killer.

An Eternal whose second chance had finally arrived—and this time he would not be denied.

“T
hey took my mom away last night.”

Shea Jameson wanted to lock her classroom door and walk away. It was the only sane thing to do. But the tremor in her student's voice pulled at her. The day was over at Lincoln Middle School and the hallways should have been emptied. Shea knew because she always waited until everyone else had left the building before she headed home. She made it a point to avoid crowds whenever she could. As a teacher, she was faced with classes filled with kids every day, but they didn't bother her. It was the parents of those children that worried her.

She looked down at Amanda Hall and sympathy rose up inside her. Shea had heard the rumors, the whispers. She'd watched as the teachers had reluctantly protected Amanda from those who only yesterday had been her friends. And she knew that the girl's situation was only going to get worse.

“Ms. Jameson, I don't know what to do.”

Her heart broke for the petite blond girl leaning against a row of closed lockers in the empty, quiet school hallway. The child's face was streaked with tears, her blue eyes swimming with them. Her arms were crossed over her middle, as if she was trying to console herself, and when she looked up at Shea, stark misery and panic were stamped on her small features.

She wouldn't be able to turn her back on the girl, despite the risks, Shea thought with an inner sigh. How could she and still live with herself?

“I'm so sorry, Amanda.” She glanced over her shoulder to be sure there was no one near. Not a soul was around, though, and the silence, but for Amanda's soft sniffling, was deafening. The beige walls were decorated with posters announcing the coming Fall Festival and Shea's gaze slid away from the drawings of cackling wart-encrusted witches burning at stakes.

The small hairs at the back of her neck stood straight up and she could have sworn that there was someone close by, watching her. A shiver of something icy slid along Shea's spine, but the halls were still empty. For now.

She shouldn't have stopped, a voice in her mind whispered. Shouldn't have spoken to the girl. No one knew better than Shea that there were spies everywhere. That no one was safe anymore. If someone should see her talking to this child now, her own personal nightmarish circus would begin again, and there was no guarantee that this time Shea would survive it.

But how could she walk away from a child in desperate need? Especially when she knew exactly what Amanda was going through? Shifting her books and papers in her arms, Shea dropped her free hand to the girl's shoulder and tried to think of something comforting to say. But lies wouldn't do her any good and the truth was far too terrifying.

If Amanda's mother had really been taken, she wouldn't be coming back. In fact, it was probably only a matter of time before the authorities came to snatch up Amanda as well. And that realization pushed her to speak.