A Touch of Magic, page 2
part #8 of True Mates Generations Series
Quickly, he pivoted on his heel and walked away. His wolf scratched and whined at him. What is it? But his wolf didn’t exactly talk back. As he moved farther and farther away from the coffee shop, it quieted down, so he continued to walk, trying to clear his head of the apple cider and snow scent. He didn’t realize how far he’d walked or how late it was until he saw Columbus Circle up ahead.
“Damn.” Checking his watch, he knew he was going to be late for his meeting with his father and the Alpha unless he left right this moment. He ducked into the Time Warner Center, then headed towards the bathrooms and into one of the stalls. He pictured the Alpha’s office in his mind, imagining that spot behind him with the large windows that faced Central Park. And in seconds, he was there.
“Apologies, Primul,” he said, using the traditional honorific a Lycan used for his Alpha. “I was running late.”
The leather chair swiveled around to face him. “No worries, Cross,” he said. “Have a seat.”
Daric, not surprisingly, was already there, sitting on the chair opposite Grant Anderson. He merely lifted a blond brow, but said nothing as Cross sat next to him. “I know you’re busy, so I’ll get right to it. As you know, I’ve been looking through the archives of several libraries around the world.”
“Did you find any more information?”
He looked at Daric, who gave him a slight nod. “Yes, Alpha. And I have reason to believe that the things that were in G—Grandmother’s and Dad’s vision are three artifacts that were owned by a powerful mage named Magus Aurelius.”
“Magus Aurelius?” Grant’s brows snapped together. “Never heard of him.”
“He lived over a thousand years ago, according to the texts I’ve read, though we can’t really take ‘thousand’ literally as the English translations can be tricky. It could be much older than that.”
“All right, so tell me more about this Magus Aurelius and those artifacts.”
“A long time ago, Magus Aurelius controlled a large chunk of what we know now as Central and Eastern Europe. However, his subjects were rising up against him, with the help of the Lycans. He knew his reign was about to end, and so he hatched a plan to infuse his magic into three objects.”
“Why three?” the Alpha asked.
“Three is an important number in magic,” Daric said. “But please go on, Cross.”
“Magus Aurelius chose three objects and then sacrificed three hundred humans and three hundred Lycans so he could bind his powers into these objects.”
The Alpha leaned forward. “Then what happened?”
“I haven’t found the exact answer, but it seems he was defeated by the Lycans and the humans, but the artifacts were lost. However, they seem to resurface every now and then, and I’ve narrowed it down to three possible objects—a necklace, a blade, and a ring. Each one on its own has different properties and powers.”
“What kind of powers?”
Cross took out his phone and lay it on the table. He opened up his photo library and expanded an image he had taken from St. Catherine’s in Egypt of a pendant on an ancient papyrus scroll. “The necklace is said to be able to control a person.” Swiping to the next image, he zoomed in on a drawing of a short sword on delicate yellowed paper. “This was from the Khizanat al Qarawiyyin in Fez from one of their oldest books. The blade can create portals that can cross the world.” His finger hovered over the screen.
“And?” the Alpha said. “The ring?”
“I don’t have much on the ring.” Cross swiped to the next image. It was a picture of a large book propped up against a shelf that was filled with chained books. “But this book written by a monk from the twelve hundreds talks about a ring found in a village in Gaul. The people reported some mysterious events that no one could explain.”
“What kind of events?”
“Little things. Crops dying overnight, and then a few hours later, it was like nothing happened. Farm animals being found dead in the fields, but the next day they’d be roaming around again. They traced it to a woman in the village, whom they saw out in the middle of the woods. Witnesses say she had her hands over a dead deer, when the animal suddenly jumped up and ran away. They rounded her up and accused her of witchcraft. Said she had found a ring in one of the ancient cemeteries. Unfortunately, she mysteriously died, and that was the last we’ve heard of the ring.”
“So, this ring … it has the power of death?”
“Not just death,” Daric began. “Death and life.”
“If we’re even sure this is the ring.” The Alpha rested his elbows on the table and steepled his fingers. “You’ll need to find out more.”
Cross nodded. “I already have some leads.”
“But, good job on the rest, Cross.” Grant rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “I thought we had this mage business done and over with. We need to start making plans. Now, I haven’t spoken to anyone else about this except Frankie and Lucas, but I’m thinking it’s time for me to retire.”
“Retire?” Daric seemed taken aback. “But the Alpha is a lifetime position.”
“It’s rare for an Alpha to retire, but it’s not unheard of. You have to remember, in the past, with so many wars and battles over territory, not many Alphas survived very long. Though if there is trouble brewing ahead …” His expression turned dark. “Frankie and I will have to have a long talk.”
“I’ll do my best, Primul.”
“I know you will, Cross. If anyone can find the ring, it’s the two of you. And once we have the artifacts”—the Alpha’s eyes grew dark—“we need to destroy them.”
Something about his words made Cross uncomfortable. But he knew it had to be done.
“Now.” Grant picked up his phone. “If you don’t mind …”
“Not at all, Alpha.” Daric gave him a quick bow of the head and turned to Cross. “Son, shall we head home and go over a few things?”
“I … need to take care of something at my apartment.” he said. “I’ll come by for dinner and surprise Mom. I’ll be here for a couple more days.”
“All right, son, I’ll see you later.”
Cross waited for his father to disappear before he himself left. However, instead of transporting himself to his apartment, he reappeared in a small alleyway between a Chinese restaurant and a supermarket on Eighty-Third Street. He traced his way back to Wicked Brew and hurried inside the door. The smells of coffee, pastries, sweat, and various colognes lingered in the air, making it hard to ferret out the scent of apple cider and snow. His wolf whined in disappointment.
It was silly anyway. Walking out of the coffee shop, he intended to go back to the alleyway where he first appeared, but then changed his mind and walked toward the subway. After three months, it was nice to be back in the city. Truth be told, he’d never used his powers as much as he did while he was away traveling, so it was nice to just take his time. A long subway ride could be just the thing he needed.
His wolf didn’t like the dark, confined space of the underground station, but it was comforting in a way. There was a lot more to be done; his job wasn’t finished, and he couldn’t be distracted now.
“Good morning, welcome to Wicked Brew.” The cheerful young woman manning the cashier smiled as Cross stepped up to the front of the line. “Oh, welcome back. Just the usual?”
“Yes, please.”
“How about a pastry?”
He shook his head. “Just the coffee, please.”
She picked up a cup and scribbled on the side. “Black brew, no sugar, and just a bit of cream,” she repeated.
Cross handed her a bill. “Keep the change,” he said as he stepped aside. When the barista called out his order, he grabbed his cup and sat down on the empty chair in the far corner of the dining area.
This was crazy. He told himself that over and over again. He told his wolf that this was insane, but still, he found himself coming here every morning, for the last four days. It was a long way to come for a cup of coffee, but when he tried to reason with his wolf, it just wouldn’t listen.
You don’t even know if she’ll come back here. She might have gone in here on a whim. Still, the animal didn’t care.
He sipped his coffee, the minutes ticking by. By midmorning after he’d had his second cup, he decided it was time to leave. Not just the coffee shop, but New York. He’d had dinner with his parents every night since he got here, and Astrid even made an appearance last night when they all went to see Gunnar. Of course, she and their mother spent half the night bickering, but Cross knew it was because they were too much alike. When Astrid had to leave early because she worked night shifts as a security guard, Meredith started to moan and complain why she can’t just hold a regular job or go back to school, which of course irritated his sister. Astrid led an unconventional lifestyle, to say the least, but she had always marched to the beat of her own drum.
Yes, it was nice coming back and spending time with his family, but there was work to be done. His contact from the Malatestiana Library in Italy had found that book he’d been searching for and asked him to come right away.
Ignoring the pleading whines of his wolf, he tossed the empty cup into the trash and strode toward the door. He pushed it open, but he was so distracted he didn’t see that someone had pulled on it from the other side at the same time.
“Whoa!”
Objects clattered to the ground as he collided into the other person, who stepped back. Peering down, he saw an easel, an empty canvas, and a bag that had fallen over on its side and spilled various paintbrushes and tubes of paint.
“Sorry, sorry,” he murmured as he bent down to pick up the various items.
“No, it’s my fault,” said the feminine voice. “I wasn’t looking where I was going. I had this spark of inspiration, you see. The sky, it’s so blue, and it made me think of pansies. My thoughts tend to wander, but that’s how I get my inspiration. Like I said, it just came to me. Like a spark. Ever had one of those?”
They reached for the same tube of paint at the same time, and their fingers brushed together. A strange bolt of electricity ran up his arm. His wolf suddenly perked up.
“Oh. No. Not quite that kind of spark. Must be static, though.” She swept the tube back into the bag. “Damn. I hope I didn’t miss anything.” She glanced around her. “That yellow ochre was my last tube. They always run out of it. You’d think Van Gogh and his sunflowers were coming back in vogue or something.”
“Miss?” The sun shone behind her, momentarily blinding him. However, the familiar scent of cider and freshly-fallen snow entered his nostrils, and his wolf howled in delight. It was her.
“Hmmm?”
He hadn’t seen her face the other day, and even now, her features were obscured by the large sunglasses she wore, and a large hat covered most of her head. But that perfume was all he needed to recognize her. “Sorry, I wasn’t looking where I was going.” He picked up the easel and canvas. “Are you an artist?”
“Well, trying to be,” she said. “Um, thank you.” She tried to get the easel and canvas from him, but he held it firmly. “Uh, can I have my things back please?”
“No. I mean …” God, what was wrong with him? While he wasn’t smooth with the ladies, he was never tongue-tied around them. “I’m really sorry for knocking all your things over. Can I get you a cup of coffee as an apology?”
Her tongue darted out of her mouth to lick at her lips, a move that sent a surge of desire straight to his gut. “I suppose so.” She nodded. “Okay. If you don’t mind carrying—”
“Not at all.” He gestured for her to go in first, and he followed behind her. She headed for one of the tables in the corner and took off her trench coat, draping it behind the chair before she whipped her hat off. Long, lustrous locks of white-blonde hair tumbled down her shoulders.
A strange feeling came over him—something like déjà vu, but not quite. It was something else gnawing at him, or had been gnawing at him all these months. And that something was Gunnar’s voice, ringing in his head.
White-blonde hair.
Surely that wasn’t an unusual hair color. He gripped the back of the other chair so hard he heard the wood creak. “What would you like?”
“Hmmm … I don’t know what I’m in the mood for. Something sweet, maybe. I always need something sweet.” She sat down and put her bag on the floor beside her, then took off her sunglasses, placing them on the table. “Caramel macchiato. Yes, that’s it. A caramel macchiato, please,” she said as she looked up to him. Her porcelain skin made her light eyes—a true violet color—stand out even more. “Um, are you all right?”
“I’m fine.”
Unusual eyes. Gunnar’s voice grew louder in his ear. Blue—no, they’re like amethysts.
He pivoted and headed for the cashier, giving her his order. Time seemed to slow down, and there was a pounding in his temple as a vice-like grip wrapped around his chest. It was like walking in a dream, he couldn’t even remember picking up her drink and walking back to the table.
Her eyes went wide as he sat down and pushed the cup toward her. “Thank you.”
You’re holding her and whisper something in her ear.
“Uh, are you okay?” Her soft voice knocked him out of his daze, and he stared down at her. She was so lovely it made him ache. Softly rounded cheeks, delicate brows, sweeping lashes, and a straight, pert nose. The only imperfection marring her face was a mole under the right side of her mouth, but that only seemed to add character to her face.
“You have interesting eyes, you know,” she began.
“I do?”
“Mm-hmm.” A dreamy expression crossed her face. “I’m trying to figure out what colors I’d use to get them just right. I think turquoise … no azure, with a touch of emerald. I’d have to try a couple of times to get the shade just right. And—” Her hand went to her mouth. “I’m rambling again, aren’t I? I always do that when I’m nervous … er, you know, you uh, you don’t have to sit here with me … I mean, unless you want to.” A blush swept across her cheeks. “You’re more than welcome to, ah …”
“Cross.” He sat down on the empty chair in front of her. “My name’s Cross. And you are?”
She’s there because of you.
“Sabrina.” She held out her hand. “Nice to meet you, Cross.”
She’s yours.
Taking her offered hand, he squeezed it firmly. He ignored the frisson of electricity racing up his arm because he could only focus on one thing.
On her ring finger was a silver band with a stone in the middle the color of blood.
Everyone dies.
Chapter One
Present time …
Shouldn’t have come here. This is wrong. A mistake. The words repeated in Cross’s head over and over again. Words he’d been telling himself for nearly three years now, but still, he couldn’t resist the pull. Couldn’t resist her. And so, he went.
It was early yet, and the sky was still in that stage between blue, pink, and yellow, the sun peeking out from between the high rises. She was a heavy sleeper, so she didn’t notice him when he appeared by her bedside.
Each time, he told himself it would only be a few seconds, a minute, tops. But each time he ended up staying longer. Just watching her usually. But today, the ache was so bad. He had to touch her, so he bent down and placed his palms over hers, lightly brushing his hands over her delicate skin. Feeling bold, he threaded his fingers through hers. This would have to be enough for now, to stave off that deep loneliness in his very soul.
She was like an addiction; one he just couldn’t break. God that scent. It was etched into his brain so deep, he could live to a million years old and he’d never forget it. Even now, it lingered on him, calming him and his wolf. It was the only time the animal seemed content.
He stared down at their linked fingers, anger bubbling up as that damned thing wrapped around her ring finger mocked him. Taunted him. Reminding him of why he couldn’t be here.
A soft moan made him start, and he let go, quickly backing away from the bed. But he couldn’t leave yet. His heartbeat picked up as he waited. Maybe just one more second but … no! He shouldn’t have touched her hand. As her lashes began to flutter, he shut his eyes tight and transported himself to the building across the street where he had a clear vantage point of the large loft apartment. What he’d give to be able to look into those eyes again …
She stretched, rolled over, and sat up, looking around her. With a shake of her head, she rose from the bed and made her way to the bathroom. He watched her through the large windows of the loft studio, going about her morning routine. Coffee. Toast. News on the TV, which she never really paid attention to, because all she needed was the noise. Then to her studio, where she would sit and paint and—
Shit. How long had he been there? The sun was already high in the sky. What time was it? He was late. With one last glance across the street, he closed his eyes and thought of the place where he should have been ten minutes ago.
“Apologies for the delay.”
Grant—no, he corrected himself—Lucas Anderson’s office was more crowded than usual. The new Alpha had asked him to come back for a meeting because they had some special guests. According to his father, Marc Delacroix had reunited with his long-lost family. They had always known he was a hybrid of some sort, seeing as he had the power to disappear in the shadows, but it turned out he was a member of a coven of witches and warlocks that they had never even heard of before.
“I had some business to attend to.” He strode toward the middle of the room. “Primul,” he said to Lucas. “I have—”
A high-pitched shriek cut him off. “You too!”
A girl—no, a teenager—with dark eyes looked him up and down before fixing her gaze on his hands.
“What’s wrong?” someone said.
The young woman cocked her head as she moved two steps toward him. “He’s … he’s …” There was power emanating from her, something with a dark tinge to it, similar to what he’d felt when he met Delacroix. “You’ve touched something bad,” she said accusingly.
