Impassion (Mystic) (2 page)

“Right,” Gerald confirmed.

Farriss grinned, shifting the sudden arousal tightening his pants. Success always gave him a semi—it was an ego thing—and now that he had a solid lead to share with Agro, he would surely be blessed with a witch willing to bask in his success.

The lobby darkened, and after a short moment of silence, Farriss quietly exited the building, eager to deliver the news to Agro. His witch was on the west coast.

Chapter 1

2010—Oregon (Clatsop State Forest)

L
ayla’s dreams had never been
haunted by the boogeyman. Nightmares that invaded her subconscious state always came in the form of other people’s suffering, not her own.

The horrors haunting her now were no different. Her mother’s heart exploding mere seconds after giving birth to her; her father’s wistful smile as he died in a flash of agony, a final sacrifice for the daughter he loved more than life.

Having just seen these things through a magical ring imprinted with her parents’ memories, it was no wonder the sad images haunted the sleep that followed. What came next, however, wasn’t a manifestation of memories.

Even in her unconscious state, Layla understood this, as her perception shifted the moment her dad’s world went black. No longer was she an outsider looking in, bodiless and still. Now she was flesh and bone, her veins swelling with blood that roared from a pounding heart. Her senses erupted, ripping her out of a sea of sorrow and into a flood of fire. The flames swelled around her, spitting and flickering—burning tongues starving for flesh. Smoke stung her eyes and irritated her throat, and terrified shrieks filled her ears, piercing both head and heart.

“Layla.”

“Quin,” she gasped, and his masculine scent filled her lungs, soothing her like a steaming cup of coffee on Christmas morning. The flames faded, taking the terrifying screams with them, and comfortable warmth surrounded her in the form of brawny biceps.

Awake but confused, Layla tried to recall falling asleep. Every muscle ached, especially her heart, and she wasn’t sure of her surroundings, only that she was wrapped in Quin Kavanagh’s hug. The tender skin of her eyelids was swollen, and it took four blinks to erase the blurriness. When her vision cleared, she found Quin’s white t-shirt.

Oh god. She’d blubbered all over the most gorgeous man she’d ever met.

“I’m sorry I woke you,” he offered, “but you seemed alarmed.”

Layla tried to figure out where her hands were, and had to wiggle a pinky to do it. They were wedged between her chest and his stomach, and her fingers clutched his shirt. When she opened her mouth to speak, a rough cough scraped her itchy throat.

Quin leaned back and reached for her face, dislodging the onyx spirals stuck to her cheeks. “How do you feel? Need anything?”

“Water,” she croaked.

A glass of water appeared in his hand. Then he eased her into a sitting position and passed it over. “Anything else?”

“No. Thank you.”

She scanned her surroundings as she drained the cup. They were in her parents’ bedroom, which now belonged to her. When she’d first seen it, right before experiencing their memories, she’d gotten the feeling they were reflected in its taste. Now she knew they were. They’d built it bit by bit with magic and extraordinary talent.

Layla squeezed her eyes shut on threatening tears. How were there any left?

She tapped her fingernails on the glass as she stifled the waterworks. Then she opened her eyes and passed the cup to Quin.

The dish vanished, and he took her jaw, catching a rogue tear with his thumb. “How do you feel?”

She shrugged as she lay back on the pillows and fidgeted with her hair. “Sad, I guess.”

“I’m sure,” he returned, lying beside her and propping his head on his hand. “We don’t have to talk about it right now.”

“I’m tired of crying,” she explained. “My eyes burn.”

“Close them.”

“What?”

“Close your eyes; I’ll make them feel better.”

She skeptically watched him for another moment then did as she was told.

The pad of his thumbs barely touched her lids, and a cooling sensation washed over her eyeballs and the skin around them. By the time he removed his thumbs, everything about her eyes felt normal.

“Wow,” she breathed. “Can you do that to the entire body?”

“Does something else hurt?”

She took his hand and laid it over her heart.

“I’m sorry,” he refused. “I can’t magic that hurt away. I wish I could, but it’s not a physical ailment.”

“It feels physical.”

“That’s why they call it heartache.”

“I guess.” She tried to swallow, which irritated her sore throat, so she pulled his hand to her neck. “How about this one?”

“Close your eyes and relax. This one I can fix.”

She obeyed, and he laid his head on her pillow as he stroked the skin over her esophagus. Within seconds, the swelling receded and the burn extinguished, but she held still, absorbing his soft touch and the warm breath sweeping across her cheek.

“Thank you,” she eventually whispered, laying her hand over his.

“Anytime,” he replied, moving his fingers to her heart. “There are other ways I can help heal this hurt, but they have nothing to do with magic.”

Layla swallowed, painlessly thanks to him. Then she found his eyes, their espresso depths glinting with a touch of amber, just like his wavy hair. He was unbelievably attentive and so far beyond gorgeous the word failed to do him justice, but she couldn’t take advantage of his hospitality any longer, no matter how much she wanted to.

“That’s an amazing offer,” she returned, “but I don’t expect you to stick around catering to a wounded bird, so I’m letting you off the hook. Now you can move on with your life, leave me to sweep up the pieces of mine.”

He frowned and furrowed dark eyebrows. “Is that what you want?”

She watched his handsome face, wanting to touch it, wanting to lift his lips and expose his dimples. “I don’t want you sticking around because you feel sorry for me, or because you’d feel guilty for walking away. I understand why you’ve been so kind. It was your job to get me here, but you’re not under any obligation to stay. My life is a confusing disaster right now. I don’t expect you to deal with that.” She looked at their hands and fiddled with his fingers. “I don’t want to be your chore.”

“Look at me,” he insisted.

She obeyed, and he held her gaze as he spoke. “This is where I want to be, not where I have to be.”

She searched his eyes as she slowly shook her head. “How can that be? What man wants to deal with drama that has nothing to do with him?”

“This one,” he answered, placing her palm over his heart. When she didn’t respond, he leaned close, touching his lips to her ear. “I’ve told you what I want. Now it’s your turn.”

Layla’s cheeks flamed as his breath drifted over her neck, and she was glad he’d averted his gaze, a courtesy he likely planned in anticipation of her embarrassment. He was so damn thorough and could read her like an eye chart, which kind of annoyed her, but he constantly went out of his way to make things easy on her. She didn’t know men like Quin existed outside of romance novels and fairy tales, yet there he was, prince charming in the flesh. He reminded her of the affectionate father she’d found in the imprinted ring, and a sharp pang pricked her achy heart.

A sigh feathered her hair, and she looked over, getting a flash of insight into Quin’s scarce insecurities. They pulled on her raw heart-strings, so she forced herself to maintain eye contact as she gave an honest answer. “I want you to stay… until you’re ready to go.” There, that wasn’t so hard.

“Excellent,” he approved, his tension melting away. “Close your eyes.”

She hesitated then did as she was told, and he laid her hand on her chest as he shifted away. Thirty seconds of dark silence ticked by, giving her way too much time to reflect on her parents’ memories, and her toes began an impatient dance. “Can I open them?”

“Not yet,” he refused. “I promise it will be worth it.”

She scowled and clicked her fingernails together, deciding ten more seconds was all he’d get. Halfway through her countdown, the smell of strong coffee drifted up her nose, and her twitching ceased as she deeply inhaled.

“Okay,” he allowed, “open your eyes.”

She did, finding two oversized coffee mugs in his hands. “My hero,” she approved, eagerly sitting up.

His dimples appeared as he carefully passed her a cup. “Cinnia made it.”

“Are you serious?” she exclaimed. Cinnia was her great aunt and made the best coffee.

“Yep,” Quin confirmed. “Was it worth it?”

“Definitely,” she answered, practically burying her nose in the fragrant cup. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure.” He watched her sip and sigh. Then he sampled his own.

“So tell me,” she insisted, “how did you get two cups of perfectly fresh coffee brewed by Cinnia into this room?”

“I asked her to make them. Then I summoned them from her kitchen.”

“How did you ask her?”

“It’s called mind searching.”

Layla recalled what she knew of mind searching. Her dad had used it to locate Medea—the witch who’d destroyed her family in a fit of jealousy prompted by rejection, by Aedan’s undying love for Rhosewen.

Anger Layla didn’t know she possessed quickened her pulse and tightened her jaw. “Did you see that?” she asked.

“That depends on what you’re referring to,” Quin replied.

“In my aura,” she elaborated, “what did you see?”

He studied her face then examined the air around her. When his gaze returned to hers, she found sincerity in their shiny depths. “I saw a flash of hurt and anger.”

“How could you tell?”

“The colors. Usually inky blues express sad or hurtful feelings, while deep reds express angry or harmful feelings. The darker the hue, the more intense the emotion.”

Layla surveyed his aura—a bright, hazy rainbow that completely encompassed him, yet somehow sharpened his handsome visage. “But there are dozens of colors,” she pointed out. “How do you dissect them?”

“A particular color will pulse and brighten when the corresponding emotion is stronger than others.”

“Are you sad?” she asked.

“Yes,” he confessed.

“Why?”

“I’m sad for you.”

“Oh.”

“But if you’ll look again, I’m also happy, which manifests in bright yellow.”

Layla found the radiant yellow shedding sunshine on his aura. Then she picked out another prominent color. “What’s the pink? Like a cross between a summer sunset and cotton candy.”

“That’s a beautiful description,” he commended, “and the answer is love.”

“You have a lot of it.”

“I love a lot of people.”

She took several sips of coffee while watching his face. Then she continued analyzing his aura. “What’s green?”

“Which green? I know more than one shade is prominent right now.”

“The shiny one,” she clarified. “Almost grass green, but brighter and deeper.”

“Emerald,” he whispered, and she gave a nod.

A silent moment passed as he watched her eyes. Then he bowed his head and quietly answered. “The emerald in my aura represents you.”

“What? How am I a color?”

He didn’t answer right away, and Layla thought he might be clamming up, but then she found his stare and realized that’s exactly what he was waiting for.

“When a person has strong feelings about someone,” he explained, “that someone’s eye color will flare in their aura. The emerald green in mine is in reaction to you. If you’ll look closely, you’ll also see a strip that’s the same color as my eyes. It’s a result of the love I hold for my dad, and the pale lilac ribbon represents my mom. The rest of our coven should be depicted in it as well, but they’re probably not as prominent right now.”

After finding the dark brown and pale lilac, Layla returned her attention to the most vibrant color in the plethora of hues—the bright emerald. “So,” she mumbled, cheeks flooding with heat, “exactly how much dark brown can you see in my aura?”

He smiled, not mockingly or proudly, but naturally, like it was the easiest thing in the world to do. “Enough to please me a great deal.”

“Then why do you push me to tell you how I feel? If you can see it all in my aura, why ask?”

“Our decisions don’t always coincide with our auras,” he answered. “Just because you have strong feelings about me doesn’t mean you want me here. And for the record, strong feelings don’t always equal pleasant feelings. A surge of dislike toward someone also brings out their eye color.” The corners of his lips twitched as he lowered them to his coffee. “But I doubt you dislike me that much.”

Layla gave him a sarcastic smile, but she didn’t reply. No wonder he was so open about his feelings. His emotions were laid out for everyone to see and read all the time. Why bother trying to hide?

Layla recalled how her parents’ had concealed their auras before fleeing to Idaho; how Rhosewen had manipulated hers to hide the pain; and how Aedan had filtered his when facing death. Their sad memories were invading Layla’s brain far too often, and she wondered if it would always be that way.

Quin’s voice broke through her melancholy musings like a breath of fresh air. “Have you always been this independent?”

She smirked and raised an eyebrow. “What makes you think I’m independent?”

“Your silence.”

“Oh.” She looked down and picked at the denim stretching across her knee. “Not always. Three years.”

“Since Katherine’s stroke.”

“Yes. Mom’s the only person I’ve ever relied on.”

“I see,” he whispered. Then he hesitated before going on. “You’re handling the things you saw last night very well.”

“What other option do I have?” Aside from lacking options, she felt like a fleet of army tanks had plowed over her heart using her energy as fuel.

“You could talk to me about it,” he suggested. “Surely you have questions and concerns. I’d like to help you work through them.”

Her coffee was gone, leaving her bereft of distractions and fighting the urge to chew a fingernail. “I wouldn’t know where to start.”

“Let’s start with the obvious,” he proposed. “Are you worried?”

As obvious as it was to him, Layla hadn’t made it there yet. She’d been so overcome by love and sadness, she hadn’t thought about the danger. Even now, as she recalled the enemy with perfect clarity, the threat seemed distant and irrelevant, shadowed by everything else she’d learned that weekend.

“Is Agro still alive?” she asked.

“Yes,” Quin answered, “and so is his army.”

“Am I in danger?”

“Not that we know of, but you may be able to shed some light on the situation. If you feel like talking about it.”

“How could I know something you don’t?”

“Because we have no idea what happened the night your dad died. We know what his intentions were, and we assume he succeeded, because the coven never received another visit from the Unforgivables following his departure. They watched the community from a distance, observing the magicians flying in and out—same with Aedan’s childhood community in Virginia. But Agro never showed himself again, and after about six months, he pulled his spies away. If he truly believed you were alive, he would have moved in and searched our homes, but he gave up without even questioning your grandparents, which led us to believe Aedan succeeded.”