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A TOUCH OF MAGIC

Book 8 of the True Mates Generations Series

 

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 two 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.

“No, only I have touched the dagger.” It was his father who spoke.

“But his hands,” the girl cried. “His hands.” Those dark eyes were magnetic and he couldn’t turn away. “You’ve touched it too and …” She frowned. “What’s wrong with your glow?”

Glow?

“She’s right.” He managed to pull his gaze away from the girl, toward another unfamiliar figure in the room—an old woman with long white flowing hair, whose dark eyes had turned to him. “You’ve touched something very powerful. It’s similar to what stains the warlock’s hand, but different.”

“Cross?” Tension laced the Alpha’s voice. “What is she saying?”

“Son.” His father walked toward him, and suddenly, he felt like an animal trapped by its prey. “What’s the meaning of this?”

He had to stay calm. There’s no way they could possibly know … “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“She”—the Alpha nodded at the young girl—“can detect traces of magic. And she knows you’ve touched it.”

“Touched what?” A bead of sweat formed on his temple.

“The artifact, son.” His father rarely raised his voice, not even when he was scolding his children. Shouting was more his mom’s thing. But now, he could feel Daric’s temper bubbling. “You’ve touched the ring of Magus Aurelius, haven’t you?”

“You have it?”

Cross’s wolf cowered as power radiated from Lucas in waves. Though his own wolf was strong and dominant in its own right, it recognized its Alpha. There was no way he could fight it; it was either bend or break.

The Alpha’s eyes glowed, a signal that his wolf was very close to surfacing. “All this time, you’ve had it?” he snarled.

The air was too thick, and it was hard to breathe. His wolf urged him to submit. To confess. “It’s not … it’s not what you think.”

“What the hell are we supposed to think?” The Alpha moved toward him. “You’ve been keeping it from us and—”

“I’m sorry.” They could never find out. The truth would be the end of them. He turned to the one person in the room who he could really trust, beseeching him. “But you have to understand …” Then he focused on the farthest place he could think of, disappearing into thin air as a vicious growl echoed in his ear.

He staggered back as he realized that he’d landed on uneven ground. The wind on top of the cliff was bitingly cold, but his Lycan side would help him adjust. The chill felt good on his skin, almost calming, as was the sight of the Northern Lights in the distance. This had been his father’s childhood home, at least, that valley right under the lights was. Daric had taken him here, the first time he tried his powers. It felt safe here, and would give him time to think—

“What did you do?”

He spun around. Of course his father knew he would come here. “I … Dad, please. You have to trust—”

“Trust you?” Daric said incredulously. “Why should I trust you when you’ve been hiding the ring all this time? Where is it?”

“I can’t … I can’t give it to you.”

A vein pulsed in his father’s neck. “And why not?”

“I … I don’t have it on me.” Not a lie. Then he thought of the first place that came to his head when he thought of safety.

“Then go get it and—No!”

His father lunged for him, but he disappeared just in time. Back to New York, to his childhood bedroom. It was the first place he could think of. His parents had provided him a safe and loving home, after all. And he could just sit and decide—

“Cross, what have you done?”

His father materialized by the bed. Daric knew him too well. “Just … I need time to …”

“We have to go back, son,” he said. “The Alpha is demanding your head. I cannot protect you if—”

“I can’t let you do that!” This was life and death. They could never know. He had to get out of here. So, he focused his thoughts on the farthest place he could think of.

He took a deep breath as he reappeared on top of a mountain top along the Annapurna mountains in Nepal. The air here was thin, and made him lightheaded and lose his balance. Stumbling forward, he dropped to his knees.

“What do you mean you can’t let me do that?” Daric’s voice cut into his oxygen-deprived brain.

How the heck did he know—no time to think on that. His body was beginning to recover, so he whisked himself away. To an abandoned island in the middle of the Caribbean. He waited for a minute, letting out a sigh as he plonked down on the sand.

What to do now? Come up with a plan, he guessed.

As the waves washed over his feet and legs, his thoughts strayed to her, as they always did. The last two years of his life had been devoted to protecting her, making sure no one suspected she existed or what she meant to him.

He sunk his hands into the wet sand. Focus. Minutes ticked by, but it was hard to tell how much time had passed out here. It was time like this that made him wonder about the past and the decisions he’d made that brought him here.

There’s no other way, Cross. You know it.

His eyes shut tight. Had there been no other choice at the time? Could there really have been no alternative?

“I’m sorry, son, we have to take you in.”

Cross turned his head toward the sound of the voice, then shot up to his feet. Fuck. Daric was there again, and he wasn’t alone. Delacroix and Jacob stood behind him; their faces drawn into serious expressions.

But how? Daric’s control on his teleportation powers were far superior to Cross’s, not just because he was more experienced but because he had traveled to more places. In fact, when he first started using his powers, he was only allowed to transport to places Daric had shown him first. But this beach … Cross had never been with his father here. How did he know about this place?

“You must come with us, mon ami,” the Cajun said. “We promise, no harm will come to you.”

“C’mon, Cross,” Jacob added. “You can’t run forever.”

He weighed his options. There was no way he was just going to come with them, so what was their plan? His gaze moved from his father, to Delacroix, and to Jacob. Then he saw something in the Cajun’s hand. A silver bracelet. So that was their plan.

“I can’t let you take me in,” he said, keeping his eye on the bracelet. His father had shown it to him before—it was a special bangle that prevented a witch or warlock from using their powers. “And I won’t let you put that on me!” He closed his eyes and disappeared.

Egypt. Montenegro. Tierra del Fuego. Beijing. London. He skipped from one place to another, but it didn’t seem to matter. Daric, Jacob, and Delacroix were there on his tail. As they stood on the edge of a cliff on the Amalfi Coast, he turned toward the sea. Fatigue was weighing him down. He didn’t think he could feel this tired seeing as he was Lycan, but magic always had a price. His father too, was getting tired; he could see it as he swayed on his feet as he took a step forward.

“Cross!”

Daric’s voice echoed as he disappeared and went to the next place he could think of where he could find refuge. It was a gamble, but what choice did he have?

The cool winds of the coast turned into dry heat. The desert sun blazed high above him, scorching his skin and temporarily blinding him. It had been over a year since he’d been to this place, and nothing had changed much, though they did fix that giant hole on the balcony floor. Focusing his senses, he could head the cry of an infant from the other side of the door.

“You must tell me where it is.”

He started as his father and his companions appeared a few feet away. Damn! How the fuck did they keep following him?

Daric’s eyes blazed like liquid fire. “Do you think Deedee will give you sanctuary, when you’re hiding the one thing that could destroy us all? That could mean harm to her mate and child? King Karim will burn you first.”

“I’m not trying to hide!” God, this was a mess. “I need time! Just stop following me—shit!” It was then he realized how they were tracking him. Reaching into his shirt, he grabbed the medallion hanging from the chain around his neck. Every member of the Guardian Initiative task force had one on them. He and Daric enchanted it themselves so they could always track anyone who wore one and whisk them away from danger.

“Son, don’t—”

But he ripped it from his neck and flung it far away. “I’m sorry, Dad,” he said solemnly. “I’m so sorry.”

His father’s face faded away as he used one last surge of energy to transport himself to a hotel room in the Baixa district in Lisbon. It was empty, thank God, so he teetered toward the bed and collapsed in exhaustion.

***

Cross woke up with a start. How long had he been out? He wasn’t even sure what time he’d arrived here. Though he didn’t feel as drained as when he first arrived, his body still hadn’t fully recovered, and it took him a moment to remember where he was. Lisbon. The Avenida Central Hotel.

Hauling his legs off the mattress, he sat on the edge of the bed and ran his hand down his face. God, what a mess. But hopefully he could hunker down here for a few days until he figured out what to do.

A vibration coming from his jacket pocket made his body stiffen. That’s what had woken him up. Fishing his phone out, he read the preview of the first message on the screen.

Leave.

What was that about? Unlocking the phone, he scrolled through the messages.

Run.

They all came from a company called Acme Escape Artists.

Tracking you down. Stalled as long as I could. They made me do it.

That company name … Lizzie! His cousin was trying to warn him.

Another message popped in.

They’re in the hotel. Destroy the phone and get out NOW!

“Fuck!” He crushed the phone in his hands and then used his power to turn what was left into dust. Where to go … where to go. He could stay on the run forever, survive in the woods or somewhere, but that wasn’t a viable long-term plan. For one thing, Gunnar hadn’t said if his vision had changed; if anything, the predictions he’d been having about the mage attacks only seemed to solidify his original vision. And in two years, Cross still couldn’t find the solution to his problem: how to save his clan and his mate.

His enhanced hearing could pick up footsteps down the hallway. He had to decide now. Every single place and contact he had; his father knew about. All their clans, their allies, their family and friends. It would have to be somewhere the New York clan had no connections to.

Ransom.

The name popped into his head just as the door to his room flew open, and Jacob burst in. “Stop, Cross!”

Fuck! His brain scrambled for the location of the last place he’d seen Ransom. What was the name of that garage?

The moment’s hesitation was enough for Jacob to stretch his hand forward and throw a ball of fire at him. Cross screamed in agony as the flames hit his shoulder, burning his clothes away and searing his flesh.

“No!” Daric shouted as he dashed inside. He reached out to Cross, but it was too late. His surroundings shimmered, and he disappeared from the hotel room.

His arm was still aflame, so he beat at it with his hand. “Argghh!” The pain was so unbearable that it made him lose his balance, so he dropped face down on the rough asphalt. The smell of his burned flesh was magnified to his sensitive nose, making him want to pass out. Can’t give up yet.

Lifting his head, relief sluiced through him when he saw the words Bucky’s Garage painted on the side of the single story brickwork structure. He forced himself up on his feet despite the dizziness threatening to overpower him.

“Hello?” He rapped on the door. “Anyone here?”

There was a shuffling inside before the door opened. “Whaddaya want?” the old man asked, his weathered face wrinkling up as he frowned and sniffed the air. “Holy shit, sonny!” His eyes grew wide as he saw Cross’s shoulder. “I’ll call nine-one-one—”

“No!” He pushed past the man and hurried inside. “Call Ransom. Please.”

The old man hesitated, then let out a harrumph. “Fine.” He turned around and fished a phone from his pocket, then tapped on the screen and put it to his ear. “Yeah, it’s me. There’s someone here lookin’ fer ya … no, doesn’t look like anyone I’d seen before … tall fella. Just showed up, bleedin’ all over my garage. Looks like one of them goddamn Vikings.” The man’s face changed. “All right.” He handed Cross the phone. “He wants to talk to you.”

“Ransom, it’s Cross,” he said.

“Damn, I thought it was one of my buddies from the slammer.” The voice was gruff, not that Cross expected a warm greeting. “What do you want?”

“I’m in trouble.”

“And so?”

“Yes … and I just need to lie low for a few days. Can I crash with you?”

There was a pause. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“Look, I promise I won’t be any trouble. I just need a place to sleep and think.”

“Cross, you know—”

“You owe me.” He didn’t want to bring up that night, but what choice did he have? “Please.”

There was a low growl followed by a grunt. “Fine. You need a ride?”

“I …” The pain was too much, and he dropped the phone. The world swirled around him, and a wave of nausea hit him.

“Sonny!” The voice seemed far away. “Sonny! Don’t—”

His vision went black, and the only thing he was aware of was the cold cement floor underneath him. What was wrong? His body should be healing by now, not getting worse.

Give it to us.

“Who said that?” he slurred. “What do you want?”

The dagger. Give us the dagger.

“You can’t!”

Give us the dagger. Or your mate dies.

“No!” He sat up, grasping at the sheets around him. Sheets? Where was he? The smell of pine was the first thing he noticed, then the feel of a firm mattress underneath him. Grabbing his shoulder, he winced at the twinge of pain, but it wasn’t as bad as before, and someone had dressed the wound in a white bandage.

“Finally up, huh?” came the low, gravelly voice.

His head turned to the sound of the voice. It was dark inside this place, and his tired eyes were having trouble focusing on the shadowy figure in the corner. A shaft of moonlight, however, shone through a window and illuminated a pair of black leather boots. “Ransom, is that you?” he rasped. Why was his throat so scratchy? “Did I pass out?”

The boots sounded heavy on the wooden floor as their wearer stepped forward, revealing his face. “You’ve been asleep for hours.”

He looked up, his vision focusing on the man hovering above him. Gold-green hazel eyes regarded him, and there was no mistaking who it was. “Hours?”

“Yeah.” Ransom knelt down to his level. “You okay, buddy? That was a nasty burn.”

“Yeah I …”

“It’s healing now. Dressed it myself.” When Cross tried to roll out of bed, Ransom placed a hand on his good shoulder. “Stay put, get a couple more hours—”

“No.” He couldn’t delay, not after that message. It was obvious who it came from. The mages. His father had told him that his old master, Stefan, was able to send him telepathic messages. Somehow the new mages had found a way to do it, and now they were blackmailing him into giving them the dagger.

He pushed Ransom aside and got up, wincing as he felt his singed flesh protest. It was definitely better than before, but it wasn’t quite done. Lycan healing was a hell of a lot faster that a human’s, but it wasn’t instant. It would maybe take another day or two for the burn to completely heal. “I have to go.”

“Go?” A dark blond brow lifted up. “After you made me risk everything by bringing you here?”

“Shit. Sorry. But”—he stretched out to full height—“I have to go back.”

“Back where?”

“New York,” he said. His thoughts were already focusing on where he had to go. It wasn’t hard, because his thoughts always brought him back to her.

Chapter TWO

You can do this. It’s not a big deal. The store’s not far away.

Sabrina Strohen repeated the words to herself like a mantra. Taking a deep breath, she wiped off the sweat forming on her palms down her jeans and then reached for the door.

Every single time she had to leave the house, the struggle nearly overwhelmed her. Well, that’s probably why I don’t leave the house. Why bother when everything could be delivered to her loft apartment? Or she could always have her agent, Barbara, or her father bring it for her when they came around. No, there was no need to ever leave the safety of her home. And she hadn’t, not for the last two years. Not since the bus accident.

But there were times when there was an emergency, and she had no choice but to leave. Like today. She was making a cup of coffee during her afternoon painting break when she realized she was out of her favorite cookies.

Damn her sweet tooth.

She had tried to ignore the craving for the sweets. Distracted herself. Told herself she didn’t really need them. Her hips and her chunky thighs certainly didn’t need extra padding. But now the need for them was screaming at her, and she couldn’t even pick up a paint brush.

I’m going to get those damned cookies, even if it kills me!

The lump in her throat had grown too large to swallow. Going out wasn’t going to kill her, she knew that. But the crippling anxiety weighed her down, as it always did when she attempted to take even one step outside.

“You can do this!” she hissed and grabbed the door. Turning the knob, she pushed her body out as if an outside force was propelling her. The loud slam seemed to portend her doom, but it was too late now. She took one step forward, and another, and another, until she got to the elevator. She hit the call button and waited; the air stuck in her lungs.

The doors opened and she let out a loud sigh. Oh, thank goodness! There was no one else inside. She would have taken the stairs, except it was six floors down and would only prolong her sojourn outside. Thankfully, the elevator continued to the first floor without stopping and as soon as the doors opened, she made a run for the exit, bursting through the double doors and out into the street.

The Meatpacking District in New York was a cacophony of sounds as well as smells and sights. The blare of car horns. The smell of grilled meat from a nearby food card. The seemingly endless parade of people as a tour group crossed her path. It assaulted her senses, making her dizzy.

The doctor at the hospital said it was psychosomatic, that there was nothing wrong with her. It was all in her head, Dr. Stevens had prognosed. But she knew it wasn’t and insisted that all these physical symptoms were real. Her father had been so furious that he took her out of the doctor’s care and that hospital immediately. Since then, she hadn’t seen him or any other doctor. But that was fine because she was fully healed from the bus accident, physically anyway.

As the wave of dizziness passed, she made a beeline for the corner store. The minimart wasn’t crowded at this time of the day, so she was able to zip toward the snack aisle for her cookies. The sour-faced man at the register didn’t try to make small talk, and she did her best to avoid looking into his eyes. After tapping her debit card on the machine to pay, she grabbed her stuff and scampered back to her building. Her stomach tied up in knots when she saw the people waiting for the elevator, so she did a one-eighty turn and headed for the stairs.

Six flights up later, she was finally inside her apartment. Sure, her lungs nearly gave out, but she was here, safe and sound. Her fingers played with the silver ring on her right finger, twisting it around. Though she’d had the ring for what seemed like forever, it was a nervous habit she’d developed in the past two years, as if it were some magic charm, protecting her from whatever harm her brain had cooked up since the accident.

Why couldn’t she just be normal? She sank back against the door and buried her face in her hands. How come everyone else could leave their homes every day and not have a panic attack? Why were they able to go about their day interacting with other people without anxiety creeping in on them?

Minutes ticked by before she finally found the will to get up, then headed toward the kitchen. Her loft took up an entire floor of the building and had one large living area in the front that flowed into kitchen and dining room, while the rear part was where her bedroom and studio were located. Her coffee was no longer hot, but she didn’t bother to reheat it. Instead, she ripped into a box of cookies and scarfed two down before swallowing a gulp of the leftover brew.

The loud buzzing of the doorbell made her slam the cup down in surprise. It was five thirty, so it could only be one person.

“Hi, Dad,” she greeted as she opened the door. “You have a key, you know, you can always come in anytime. You do own this loft, though one day you’re going to let me buy it off you or at least pay you some rent.”

As always, Jonathan S. Strohen looked immaculately groomed and dressed in his tailored navy suit, his white hair combed back. He smiled at his daughter, his brown eyes turning soft. “I told you, this place is yours. And I wouldn’t dream of intruding on your privacy, sweetheart.” He leaned down and kissed her on the cheek, his mustache tickling her. “How are you today?”

“Oh, you know.” She stepped aside to let him inside. “The same.”

There was a flash of sadness across her father’s face, but he quickly pasted on a smile. “How’s the latest work going?”

“It’s going. Want to see?”

He nodded, and she led him to her spacious, light-filled studio. Several paintings were propped up on easels around the room in varying states of doneness. Usually, she worked on one painting at a time, but all of these just seemed to come out of her brain together.

“These are beautiful, sweetheart.” Jonathan took his time looking at each painting as he always did. “I don’t see a theme, though.”

“Um, there’s no theme, really. Just stuff that came to me.”

There was a painting of a bench from Central Park that was almost done, while beside it was the beginnings of a scene from one of her favorite coffee shops. Then there was one of the subway stop on Eighth Avenue, and another of the interior of her studio. Actually, there were several of that featured scenes from her loft, including one that she painted back when she had a lot of plants. When she came back from the hospital after the accident, she had found her loft bare, and her father said he had to get rid of most of them because they had died while she was away.

She sighed and fiddled with her ring nervously. “I don’t even know if I’ll show them. Barbara wasn’t too enthusiastic when she saw them.” Compared to her other works—usually dazzling landscapes or thought-provoking portraits—these seemed almost mundane. There was also a hint of sadness in them, like there was something lacking, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on what that was.

“Well …” He turned to her. “I’m sure they’ll turn out great once you’re done. And your next show will be another smashing success.”

“You’re supposed to say that. You’re my dad,” she said wryly.

He harrumphed. “I’m so proud of you, Sabrina.” He placed his hands on her shoulders. “You’re so talented. I bet your mother would have been so proud too …” His voice broke off, as it usually did when talking about her mother.

Melanie Strohen died shortly after Sabrina had been born, and though she was sad that she never knew her mother, she didn’t know what it was like to have her around. Jonathan, however, still grieved her loss and must have loved her because he never remarried.

“I don’t know … do you … do you think she’d be proud of me despite of me being so … you know.”

Jonathan pursed his lips. “Being what?”

“I mean … I can’t leave the house without having a complete breakdown. I can’t talk to anyone. It’s like something’s wrong and—”

“Sweetheart, no.” He gripped her shoulders harder. “There’s nothing wrong with you okay? It was the accident.”

Yes, that was it. The day everything changed, at least, that’s what she was told. “But why can’t I remember it, Dad?” Her anxiety began to rise as it always did when she tried to recall what happened. Her right hand closed into a fist, and she used her thumb to rub her ring. “I remember everything before that. But why can’t I recall—”

“It’s probably some kind of safety mechanism in your brain,” he reasoned. “Blocking out the trauma. It was a terrible accident. All those people …” He tsked and shook his head. “You must have seen some terrible things when your bus overturned. You were the only survivor.”

She’d heard the story over and over again. Yet, nothing clicked in her brain. There wasn’t even a glimmer of a memory in her mind of that time, only before or after. She couldn’t even remember which bus it was or where she was going. It was like her life stopped and skipped a whole section. But then again, maybe he was right. She’d read books and articles about selective amnesia, and how trauma could somehow trigger memory loss, along with a host of other conditions like anxiety and depression. “I … maybe someday … I mean, today I managed to get out.”

“Y-you did?” His eyes widened.

“Yes. I ran out of cookies, and you know I had to go and—”

“You shouldn’t—I mean, sweetheart, next time just give me call, okay? I can run over and bring you whatever—”

“Daaaaad.” She removed his hands from her shoulders. “You run a multinational corporation. I don’t think your shareholders would appreciate a CEO who runs out of the office in the middle of the day to run errands.”

He harrumphed. “You’re my daughter and my number one priority.”

She turned away from him, hoping to hide her face. “I know, Dad, I know.” That was the kind of father he was. He’d never missed a recital, a school play, or a graduation while she was growing up. She enjoyed the attention, of course, being an only child and him being her only parent, though after the accident, he seemed to get even more protective. Even suffocating in some ways.

“And what’s this? New project?”

She whirled around, her eyes widening in horror as her father reached for the curtain that partitioned off one corner of her studio. “Dad, no!” she cried as she practically flew across the room to get between him and the curtain. “I mean, I’m not ready to show that yet.”

His brows snapped together. “Are you all right, Sabrina? You look pale.”

“I …” The blood indeed, felt like it was draining from her face. “I’m just you know … tired.”

He placed a hand over her forehead, like he did back when she was a little girl and complained of a fever. “You don’t have a temperature or anything. You need to get rest, sweetheart.”

“I do, I sleep pretty soundly, though”—she couldn’t help the chuckle bursting from her lips—“I think the ghost is back.”

“The ghost?”

Relieved that her father had forgotten about what was behind the curtain, she linked her arm through his and led him back into the living area. “Oh, I guess I haven’t told you,” she said. “Well, I didn’t want you to worry about your investment. If you ever do think of kicking me out, it might be hard to sell this place once your prospective buyers find out it’s haunted.”

Now it was father who turned pale. “Haunted?”

“Yeah … sometimes things move in the middle of the night.” They sat on the couch and she smoothed her hands across the buttery soft suede. “Like, I’ll leave a cup of tea by my bedside, and the next morning, it’ll be knocked over on the floor. Or sometimes I’ll fall asleep here on the couch, and when I wake up, I’ll have a blanket on top of me.” And then there was that scent that seemed to linger … chocolate with a hint of mint, like the smell of her favorite cookies. It happened again yesterday morning. There was a lingering scent in the air, like someone had been there next to her bed.

“I’m sure it’s just you being forgetful, sweetheart.” He took his phone out, and tapped on the screen. “So, what do you want for dinner? I can have my driver pick up anything you want.”

“Oh.” Food. Yes, that would be nice. Her ghost momentarily forgotten; she tapped her finger on her chin. “How about Chinese? From the usual place?” She kept telling herself that one of these days she was going to start to diet, but since she never really went out or even saw anyone other than Jonathan or Barbara, there didn’t seem to be any immediate need for her to lose weight.

“Egg rolls, right?”

“Yes, please.”

As her father called his driver, she glanced back at her studio. The tension from her shoulders drained, but still, it had been too close for comfort. Jonathan could have pulled the curtain aside, and well, she just wasn’t ready for him to see those. It was hard enough for her to display that first painting for an exhibition, and even then, she couldn’t part with it. Barbara had called her up, told her some rich royal wanted it and was willing to pay a mind-boggling amount, but she couldn’t sell it. It was too … personal.

She mentally shook her head. No one—not Jonathan, Barbara, or anyone else—would see what was behind that curtain, not if she could help it.

***

“This was great as always, Dad,” Sabrina said as she opened the front door. “Thanks.”

“Of course, sweetheart.” He placed a kiss on her forehead. “If you need anything—”

“I know, Dad.” She brushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead. “I love you.”

“Love you too.” With a final wave goodbye, her father stepped into the elevator, and she shut the door, locking in the deadbolt and chain for good measure.

Dinners with her father were one of the few things she looked forward to, and while she knew he couldn’t come every night, Jonathan did his best and came over at least thrice a week. It was their time to catch up, and for a few moments, Sabrina forgot that she lived the life of a shut-in.

With a deep sigh, she picked up the half-empty boxes of food and stuck them into the fridge, then put the plates and glasses in the dishwasher. She was about to head into the bedroom when she stopped, turned, and headed to her studio.

Maybe I should just start over again. Those paintings were missing something. Why did she feel the need to make them anyway? It was like a chronological depiction of how pathetic her life had become—while she used to enjoy things like going out to Central Park or Wicked Brew, now she was stuck here, in a prison that she seemingly made herself.

An odd chill crawled up her arm. It was like she wasn’t alone. Rubbing her hands on her arms, she turned and walked out of the studio. Another chill blasted through her.

“W-who’s there?” she said, then cursed silently. That was stupid of her, because if someone was out there, now they knew she knew they were there.

A shuffling sound made her start, and her heart went wild. Someone was in here! Without a second thought, she dashed to the bathroom and locked the door. “Oh God, oh God!” Frantically, she glanced around, wondering if there was anything she could use for a weapon. If only she’d thought to grab a knife in the kitchen or something. Flattening herself against the sink, she stared at the door, watching the light from under the small gap between the floor and the door.

Shadows crept in, blocking the light. She released the breath she was holding. “Whoever you are, you better leave! I’ve just called the police.” Crap, she should have gotten her phone. Hopefully the intruder hadn’t seen it on the kitchen counter.

The door jiggled.

“L-l-leave me alone!” she cried. “I have jewelry and cash in the drawer next to the bed. Y-y-you can have it all.” Slowly, she slid to the floor and hugged her arms around her knees. “Please.” A squeak escaped her mouth, and her eyes shut tight when she heard a loud crash.

“Sabrina.”

That voice.

She was sure she’d never heard that voice before, so why did her heart skip a beat? Why did a strange, warm sensation pool in her stomach? Slowly, she lifted her head.

Oh.

Eyes the color of the sea stared down at her. There was something about them … it was more than that they looked familiar. No, it was like she knew those eyes. And that nose, those cheekbones, and that mouth. That face! This was …

It couldn’t be!

A lightheaded feeling came over her. No, no, no. But how could it be? How could he be standing here, in the flesh?

“Sabrina. You need to come with me.”

She bolted up to her feet, ignoring the sudden rush of blood to her brain. “E-e-excuse me?”

“I don’t have any time to explain.” He ran his hand through his golden hair—he’d shaved the sides, though. “You’re in danger, and I can’t let you fall into their hands.”

“Danger?” she echoed. “From whom?” His mere presence overwhelmed her in this tiny space, and she tried to move aside, but he caught her hand. Electricity shot up through her arm, like a really strong shock of static. There was a flicker of acknowledgement in his blue-green eyes. “You felt that too?”

“Sabrina—”

She yanked her hand away. “And how do you … how did you … how could you …”

He frowned. “How could I what? Know your name?”

This was a stranger who had somehow broken into her home, but she didn’t feel scared or threatened. No, instead there was a hum of excitement in the air, tinged with longing.

“Please, Sabrina.” The low timbre of his voice was like a caress. “Come with me.”

A sudden surge of boldness sent her heart beating like mad. “No, I won’t come with you! Not until you tell me w-w-why …”

“Why what?”

She dashed around him, running through the doorway and out to the living area. He called her name, but she didn’t stop as she ran all the way to her studio. Was she doing the right thing? Well, she was going to find out.

Just as she expected, he followed her, his footsteps coming closer. She halted by the curtained partition and spun around. “Tell me why!”

“Why what?”

Grasping the curtain, she flung it aside. It was obvious from the way his eyes grew wide and his mouth hung open that he was shocked. She couldn’t move, not even to look behind her. Not that she needed to. “Why … why do I keep painting you?”

“Sabrina …” His voice came out in a whispered choke.

“That’s you, right?” She gestured wildly to the dozen or so paintings behind her. “That’s you!” A portrait of him in Central Park, sitting on a bench. “And that one too.” Standing on Fifth Avenue, hailing a cab. “And that one.” It was a half-formed bust in clay, not very good because sculpting hadn’t been her best subject in art school, but she’d managed to capture his bone structure. “And this one …” The very first one she painted. He was dressed in a white linen shirt, with a wall of cliffs behind him. When his face first took shape on the canvas, she thought he looked like a Viking, so she researched fjords and came up with that background based on a photo in a remote village in Norway she had seen.

“I can explain.”

“Then do it!” Her voice rose a few decibels, but she couldn’t help herself. Her head began to throb and her vision shimmered. It was like her brain was fighting something. But what?

“If you come with me, I’ll do my best.”

“Come with you? Are you crazy?” She waved her hands in the air. “I don’t even know you.”

There was a flash of pain in his face, so fleeting she almost thought she imagined it. “There’s no time for this.” He made a grab for her, but she sidestepped him. “Sabrina!”

She sprinted out of the studio and headed toward the kitchen, then grabbed the butcher’s knife out of the block. Spinning around, she held the knife in front of her. “Where are you?” Carefully, she crept into the living area. Was he still in the studio? There was no time to lose. Although her stomach turned at the thought of leaving the apartment, what choice did she have? And so, she made a mad dash for the front door. Lunging forward, she reached for the chain, but something jerked her back, like an invisible force.

“Don’t even think of escaping.”

It was not the blond man who spoke. No, this voice brought a cold chill to her veins, and something inside her screamed danger. “Who … who’s there?” Her body pivoted on its own, like a puppet hanging from strings. “You …”

The bald man cracked a smile, his skin breaking like cracked porcelain. “Sabrina Strohen,” he said, lifting a gnarled, ashen hand tipped with long fingernails. “You will be of good use to us.” He wore a blood red robe, and three more people wearing similar robes stood behind him. “Don’t worry, we won’t kill you … yet. Why would we, when you can help us hit two birds with one stone?”

“What are you talking about?” She gasped when her body refused to move. “What did you do?”

He moved closer to her. “We need you, Sabrina. There’s no escape.”

Oh God, what the hell was happening here? How did all these people get into her apartment without unlocking or breaking down her dead bolted and chained door?

A thunderous sound from behind the robed men made her freeze. Then, a large white blur burst out from the doorway to the studio.

“Insolent cur!” the bald man screamed, spittle spraying from his mouth. “Get him!”

“What the—” Surely she was seeing things. Did those men drug her or maybe there was a gas leak in the loft? Because she just couldn’t believe that a large white wolf was standing in the middle of her living room.

One of the men swung around and lifted his hand to throw something at the wolf, but the animal dodged to the left, then lunged forward. Its great maw opened, baring large teeth that sunk down on its would-be attacker’s arm. The man let out a scream as the wolf easily flung him aside.

“Dirty dog! You—Ah!” The bald man was flung aside and hit the wall.

Whatever bonds were around her loosened unexpectedly, but it was too late to stop her body from collapsing. The floor vibrated as the sound of claws clicking on the hardwood came harder and as she looked up, she saw the giant wolf lunging toward her.

“No!” She put her hands up to her face and braced herself. The wolf’s body slammed against her, and she waited for the impact of the door on her back, but instead, tumbled backwards. Furry limbs wrapped her up, as they continued tumbling on the damp, grassy ground.

Grass?

She landed on top of the wolf with a loud, “Oomph!” and that’s when the smell hit her. Chocolate, with a touch of mint. That scent …

Swiftly, she rolled off him and scrambled to her feet. Oh God, she must be hallucinating but it all felt real—the night breeze, the soil under her bare feet, and the fact the she was outdoors for some reason.

What the hell was going on?

A Touch of Magic

Releases March 25, 2020

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