Fire Burn and Cauldron Bubble (5 page)

“Your attraction for me is interrupting your focus.”

Okay, did I mention I don’t like egomaniacs? I could feel my blood pressure increasing. “My what for you? You think I can’t move the glass because I’m thinking about you?”

He nodded, and the volcano that was Jolie’s temper erupted. Of all the egotistical, narcissistic bastards! “What a self-centered and ridiculous thing for you to say!” I shot out at him, wishing I could slap the smug smile right off his face.

“I can’t move the damn thing because I’m not a witch, not because I’m thinking about you!”

“Focus it on the glass!”

“Fuck the glass!”

Pointing his index finger like he was Death incarnate, he aimed my attention at the glass again, and fury mounted inside me. If I was going to move the damn glass, I needed to do it now. I envisaged all his egoism filling the glass until it was brimming over, bubbles of narcissism and conceit brewing like yeast.

And I moved that glass with my mind. The damn thing actually jumped off the bar and landed with a thud on the carpet. If I hadn’t been so livid, I might have been proud of myself but, instead, I was left feeling nothing but empty.

Rand’s grin was wide as he took a step toward me. “I knew you could do it.”

I held my up my hand to keep him at bay. “Don’t come near me, you bastard.”

“I said it to get you riled up, Jolie, I needed some energy from you.”

I hesitated, my brows snapping together. “You said that so I’d move the glass?” I asked facetiously.

He sighed, as if expending all the air within him. “I needed to give you an outlet. It’s true that witches are attracted to one another, all otherworldly creatures are.”

Then it dawned on me that I should never have been angry in the first place. “I’m not a witch.”

He shrugged. “Call yourself what you will. You can see the future, no?”

“It’s called being psychic, and there are hundreds of thousands of people who can claim the same thing,” I snarled.

“You can see the life force of others.”

“So what? That doesn’t make me a witch. I can’t wiggle my nose and make the cat litter take itself out. And, for that matter, I haven’t seen anything that would convince me you’re such a great witch. You’ve moved chairs and slammed a door and moved a glass, but all of that could’ve been rigged, you know?”

Rand smiled. The challenge was on. “Yes, it could be rigged. What do you want me to do? You name it.”

Hmm, this was a good one. What did I want him to do? End world hunger? Abolish taxes? Take off all of his clothes? That last thought brought heat to my cheeks and I dropped my gaze to the floor, reaching for the first thing that next entered my min/p>

I brought my gaze back to his. “I want you to levitate.” I crossed my arms across my chest and smirked. The time of reckoning was upon him.

He lifted a brow just before his feet left the ground, and he floated in front of me. My smile fell. Well, ask and you shall receive! The cynic in me searched for some plausible reason as to why this was happening, but not finding one, I faced the fact that maybe Rand was a warlock.

If it looks like a warlock, sounds like a warlock…you get it.

“You can come back down, I believe you.” Even if I was convinced Rand was otherworldy, it didn’t mean I thought I was capable of the same things. “What if I still don’t believe I’m a witch?”

There was no emotion on Rand’s face as he neared me. “Then you won’t be able to stop me from kissing you.”

I wanted nothing more than for him to kiss me. I also wanted him as far away as possible because I couldn’t fathom the idea of being kissed. I wouldn’t be a good kisser. So, much though I hated the idea, when he came close, my frenzied mind pictured an invisible bubble surrounding me.

A look of surprise seized Rand’s face when he moved in for the kiss and, instead, found himself buttressed by a transparent wall. He backed away instantly, as if he’d been burned. I guess, in a manner of speaking, he had been.

“Rand, wait,” I started, my voice failing me at the most inopportune moment.

His eyes were like those of a statue, stoic and revealing nothing. “That’s enough practicing for tonight,” he said, and his voice was empty. He started for the door before I could stop him, and I stood there like an idiot, not knowing what to do. I was so befuddled, I didn’t even get the chance to contemplate the fact that I’d stopped Rand’s advances with my mind—with, dare I say it…magic.

The sound of the door slamming behind him ricocheted through me like a bullet and wedged itself right into my heart.

FOUR

Rand’s hands tightened on mine. I gazed into the rich chocolate of his eyes and thought I was an absolute moron. I had to be the only woman on the planet who wouldn’t allow herself to kiss such an incredible looking man. I closed my eyes against the idiocy of the whole damned thing.

Sitting Indian-style on the floor in the Fords’ home, my gaze darted around the room and rested on Christa who sat on the sofa inspecting her nails…again. Then my eyes sought Rand who patiently waited for me to see something…again. And, as with the last attempts, nothing happened. I concentrated and tried to get angry, remembering how that had worked when I’d moved the glass.

Nothing at all. Maybe I just wasn’t cut out for this.

“font size="3">Jolie, are you focusing?” Rand asked.

“Yes,” I snapped. “If I focus anymore I’m going to focus myself right into a coma!” I hadn’t meant for my words to sound so acerbic, but by the smile on his lips, he hadn’t taken them as such.

He squeezed my hand. “Okay, just wanted to be sure. Keep going.”

I didn’t say anything but nodded and closed my eyes again, focusing as hard as I could. I tried to envision the room around me, as it would’ve been ninety years ago, but still nothing. Course, I didn’t really know what was in vogue ninety years ago, so I couldn’t make much of a mental picture for myself—just a room with one of those old model radios—the kind that are about four feet tall. And a picture of Clark Gable. Was good ol’ Clark even around in the twenties? Sheesh… history lesson on aisle five!

My head began to thud, as if rebelling against the idea of concentrating anymore, and my butt had grown numb hours ago. In fact, my entire body felt strangely numb. Deciding I’d had enough, I opened my eyes.

I was alone.

I turned my head, expecting to find Christa and Rand hiding behind a wall, ready to jump out and scare me, but it was eerily quiet. Where the hell had they gone? Panic began a slow spiral through my stomach, working its way up my throat until I thought I might retch. Needing to calm myself, I forced my attention to the hardwood floors, taking note of every fleck in the wood. The floors gleamed in the light as if someone had just cleaned them, which was odd, as I could’ve sworn this place had carpeting. My gaze shifted to the curtains, and that was when I realized I’d actually done it.

I was in 1922 and in 1922, this house had curtains instead of blinds.

I breathed in through my nose, out through my mouth, repeating the process until the nausea faded into oblivion. After realizing Rand couldn’t be accounted for, I had to suppress the tide of anxiety welling within me. I guess I’d have to find out who killed Jack alone.

I perched on the edge of the sofa while my eyes traced the large floral pattern of the sofa and matching loveseat, trying to find a sense of calmness in the pink blooms. My attention shifted to the coffee table where a newspaper lay in dishevelment, its insides gutted across the table. It was The Chicago Daily Times. I grabbed the section looking most intact. In large black print it read:
What’s Wrong With the Criminal Court?

The strangest feeling of euphoria washed over me as I considered I was living history first hand. Strangely enough, the feeling made my stomach heave again. Not wanting to throw up, I started my breathing exercises—inhale for a count of four, exhale for a count of four. I wouldn’t let Rand down.

Now, the only problem…where was Jack?

I dropped the newspaper and stood up, deciding it was time to play detective. I needed to find Jack and preferred to do so quickly—I wasn’t sure how long I’d be able to last in this vision. As I walked through the living room, I noted black and white pictures of Jack with a pretty woman and a smiling baby.

In the kitchen, I paused to take in the squat, white refrigerator and the white enamel kitchen range—something straight out of a bygone era. Well, if nothing else, this little expedition was going to end up being quite the history lesson.

At the sound of the front door opening, my heart dropped as if it had been on the top story of the Empire State building. What would Jack do upon seeing me? Steeling my courage, I ventured into the living room where I watched Jack hang his fedora-looking hat on a coat rack. He walked as if he were en route to the hangman’s platform.

He turned, and his cold eyes drilled into me. I tried to come up with a plausible explanation as to why I was in his house, uninvited. He came closer, and if looks could kill, I’d have been pronounced dead on the spot. Jack didn’t say a word. Before I could duck out of the way, he walked right through me! It felt like a great wind blowing through my entire being. I braced myself against the wall, having a serious case of jello legs.

Okay, so I was the ghost in this situation. I couldn’t say I was comfortable with that thought but forced it out of my mind, lest it interfere with my mission.

After getting my wits back, I followed Jack into the kitchen. He made himself a chicken sandwich, the whole time banging and slamming this and that. It didn’t take a genius to figure out something was amiss.

Then the front door opened, and I peered around the corner of the wall. A woman walked inside. I recognized her from Jack’s family photo as his wife. She was pretty with short bobbed hair, wide set eyes, and a trim body. Tears stained her cheeks, and the mascara smudges under her eyes gave her a zombie sort of look. She took her shoes off at the door.

Her small, stockinged feet barely made a sound as she marched right into the kitchen where Jack ate his sandwich. She didn’t even bother putting her purse down or taking off her coat.

Before I could comprehend it, she pulled a pistol from her clutch and aimed it at the back of his head. There was no hesitation before she pulled the trigger.

I moved as if waist deep in molasses and tried to push Jack out of the way. As soon as I touched him, the brightest of lights seemed to penetrate through him until it completely encompassed us both. I glanced down and the white ray of light shone right through me, like I was merely a projection. I had to close my eyes against the intensity of the glare. As soon as my eyelashes met my upper cheeks, a jolt sailed through me and I had the vision of energy, of life leaving my body. The hairs on my skin stood to attention. I suddenly felt extremely tired, drained. I felt myself drop. I hit something hard and my eyes blinked open. I was on the floor, the yellow linoleum cold underneath my cheek. Pushing myself onto my hands and knees, I glanced at the wall before me. It looked like someone had thrown buckets of tomato red paint against the otherwise pristine white of the wall. Then I made the mistake of looking at Jack. Half his face was gone, pieces of bone, brain and other head debris decorating the floor behind him.

Hyperventilating, I pushed myself away from him and clasped my eyes together, hoping the darkness would erase any residue of the hideous scene before me.

You’re okay, Jolie, you’re okay. Just breathe. I tried to talk myself down but couldn’t shake the image of Jack’s brain spread out on the floor like spilled cat litter.

I pried my eyes open, glanced down at myself and noticed my figure disappearing. My feet were already transparent and the rest of me was becoming cloudy, as if a fog were twirling up my legs, erasing me as it went. A scream of pure, unadulterated terror cut through the air like a razor blade and it took me a second to realize the scream was mine.

“Jolie!” I heard a deep voice and felt a smart slap to my face.

“Wake up, Jolie! Blast it, wake up!”

I came to with a start, blood pumping in my ears until it sounded like a chorus of demons singing bass. I was on the floor with Rand hovering over me. I sat bolt upright and glanced around, trying to get a grasp of what the hell had just happened. I noted Rand and Christa but I could definitely feel someone else in the room. I turned and found Jack, in his corporeal body, staring at me with his mouth hanging open.

Jack was no longer a ghost.

And, luckily for him, it appeared as if he’d never been shot at all. His head was in remarkably good condition.

“What the…” I began when it dawned on me that maybe I’d changed places with him and I was now the ghost. A shriek of horror welled up within me, but was gobbled up by Christa who engulfed me in her arms.

“Thank God you’re alright! I thought you were going to die!”

I pried her arms from my neck. “What the fu…” I interrupted myself, thinking I should inspect my arms to ensure there was nothing ethereal about them. Nope, I looked as fleshy as Rand and Christa…and Jack. Then I got angry. “What the flipping hell crap-shit was that?”

As soon as I met Rand’s gaze, I knew it was bad—shock on the face of a powerful warlock is not a good thing. “I don’t know. You started to scream and then Jack’s ghost disappeared and was replaced with…the real Jack,” he said.

I looked up at the person in question and found he was the only one of us wearing a smile.

“I’m Jack,” he said as if we were on a dating game and I’d just selected undead bachelor number six-six-six.

“But, he’s…he’s dead,” I insisted.

Rand frowned. “Was dead. It seems you brought him back to life.” Rand was so matter of fact, he might as well have just given the weather report.

“I did what?” I squealed. But that wasn’t possible! Like children playing tag, my thoughts scattered as I tried to find a logical reason as to how this could be. How in the hell did I, Jolie Wilkins, manage to bring back a dead person? I couldn’t even balance my checkbook! “But that wasn’t supposed to happen. I did what you told me to do!” I wailed, my voice cracking.

Rand put his hand on my upper arm. Instantly, the anxiety seeped from my body, replaced with a soft calm. Ah, warlock magic.

“You did everything perfectly, Jolie. I think I underestimated your abilities.”

“Well how are we going to send him back?” I asked, still shell-shocked.

“Hell, I’m not going back!” Jack said from the corner. “This is better than I’d hoped for. All I wanted to know was who killed me, and you did one better, you brought me back to life!”

Who killed him? Oh, yeah, about that, I wasn’t sure if I could tell him his beloved wife killed him. Perfect time for a little one on one with Rand.

His wife killed him. I’m not sure we should say anything about it.

Rand’s gaze jumped from Jack to me and he raised a brow. I wasn’t sure if he was surprised due to the situation or the fact that I was teleconnecting with him.

I don’t think he’s much concerned with it. We can discuss it later…Are you alright? Christ, you scared me.

I think I’m okay. Just a bit shocked.

“So, is this a success, then?” Christa asked. “Do we go back to L.A. tomorrow?”

Hmm, that was a good question. Was this a success or would Rand want to send Jack back? Did this break some sort of rule in the universe? I had no idea. And if Rand did want to send Jack back, how would he? I didn’t think he’d just kill Jack, that didn’t seem the right thing to do.

“I don’t know what to do at the moment,” Rand said.

“I’m not going back,” Jack interrupted, and his gaze rested on me. “That little fox brought me back an’ I’m obliged to ya, ma’am.” He inclined his head toward me.

Little fox?

What do we do now?
I asked Rand.

I don’t know. I thought it was going to be a simple matter of finding out who killed him. Now, I’m not sure what I’m going to tell my friend.

Your friend?

The woman who hired me is his daughter.

Well this was quite the quandary—would the daughter be pleased her long dead father was now alive and probably three times younger than she was? Or would I be in a serious pile of crap?

“What are we doin’ sittin’ around here?” Jack asked. He stood up, then swayed as if he were a bit rocky on his feet and not used to the weight of his body. I guess being a ghost for nearly ninety years will do that to you.

It was just a matter of time before Christa chimed in. I gave her less than five seconds.

“Yeah! We should go out!” It had taken her about two seconds.

“I’m not sure that’s such a good idea…” Rand started, looking at me h a f he thought I needed some recuperation time. At least someone was thinking about me.

Jack neared the door and threw off Rand’s caution with a wave of his jelly-like arm. Apparently, Jack didn’t realize that if Rand didn’t want him to leave, he wasn’t going to.

“There’s a whole city alive out there that I haven’t seen in nearly one hundred years…” Jack began. Christa was right beside him.

I faced the glum countenance of Rand and smiled, thinking I needed a drink. Yeah, that’s exactly what I needed—a drink or five.

“What harm could it do?” I asked.

“Bloody hell,” Rand grumbled and apparently realizing it was three against one, reached for his coat. So, it was set, we were going for a night on the town—quite the motley crew: a warlock, a witch in denial, a badly dressed woman and a re-animated dead man.

#

I sat in an over-stuffed booth and tried to breathe through the cloud of smoke that billowed out of the nightclub. And I don’t mean cigarette smoke. This smoke was white pina-colada scented puffs that served no purpose other than irritating me. Hip-hop blared out of the one-room club, making it tough to hear myself think. There were another four booths that circled the small dance floor that was so packed with people, they only had enough room to sway in place.