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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

Dedication

For my husband and son, who make the most sacrifices for my craft. Your patience, understanding and support mean the world to me, and I love you guys with every beat of my heart. Thank you.

Acknowledgments

T
o those of you who
helped make
Descension
possible—you have continued to provide amazing love and support for
Impassion
, and I thank you for it again and again. Additionally, thank you to all my new readers for your avid enthusiasm. I love being able to share Layla’s story with you, and I’m touched you’re so passionate about reading it. To my editor, Kelly Schaub—thank you for your continued guidance and advice. Your editing and Oregon expertise is invaluable. To Jillian Dodd, a fellow author and an amazing woman—without knowing me, you have helped me too many times to count. Not only do I appreciate your advice more than I could possibly convey, I believe your kindness should serve as a lesson to us all. And last but not least, a great big thanks to Streetlight Graphics, who once again took my ideas and turned them into a beautiful cover.

Prologue

March 2010—Oklahoma

B
ones throbbing, as if marrow
had been replaced by liquid nitrogen, Farriss landed in the deserted alley of a strip mall and walked to a metal door. He reached for the silver knob with invisible fingers, used magic to twist the industrial lock and disarm the security system. Then he glanced around before slipping inside.

Twelve hours had passed since Farriss knelt at Agro’s feet, welcoming the icy punishment that thickened his blood and cramped his muscles, yet the whip’s freezing lash lingered, reminding him of his erroneous judgment. Forbidden to heal himself, Farriss endured, and he did so appreciatively. After losing his calm and burning down the Gander Creek diner, Farriss had expected much more than pain. He’d returned to Agro anticipating death.

It hadn’t been easy—entering Agro’s tent expecting the end—but Farriss refused to die a coward’s death, running from the inevitable wrath of the most dangerous wizard in North America.

Agro’s ice magic had run deep, and Farriss had longed for death, grinding his teeth to keep from begging for the end. But death didn’t come. Instead, Agro lifted him from the rug and poured him a glass of wine, telling him to shake it off; he had a real estate broker to interrogate.

Farriss did as he was told, grateful to be alive, but frozen to the bone.

Unfortunately, the real estate broker turned out to be a lawyer.

Farriss first visited the strip mall around noon, aiming to scout the place and perhaps slip inside for a home address. He figured Gerald Greene would be at church, or taking his family to lunch. That’s how most hexless citizens spent their Sundays in the
Bible Belt
, so Farriss was taken by surprise when he found Mr. Greene ushering a woman and two teenagers into his office.

Farriss had halted, reminded by the fierce frost still biting his bones that he should proceed with caution. Mr. Greene knew the witch; Agro wanted the witch. If Farriss were to hinder his boss’ desires, death would be the least of his worries.

Deciding it would be best to leave the woman and kids out of it, Farriss had rushed forward, stopping Mr. Greene before he could enter the building. That’s when Farriss realized Gerald wasn’t a real estate agent, but a lawyer, and a damn good one, with lips as tight as a virgin.

Gerald had been jovial at first, greeting Farriss with a curious smile and a polite handshake, but the moment Farriss inquired about Layla Callaway, the lawyer clammed up. He wouldn’t admit he was selling the witch’s house, let alone divulge her location.

Had it not been for the lingering pains of his previous punishment, Farriss would have gotten rough with the lawyer, who surely would have cracked after a bit of mystical torture. However, given his strict instructions to keep a low profile, Farriss merely walked away.

Now, two hours later, he’d returned to the empty building and was floating down a dark hallway, searching for Gerald’s private office. He found it locked, but hexless bolts were no match for magic.

Once inside, Farriss floated across the room, wondering how long Agro would obsess over his newest target. In twenty years of servitude, Farriss had never witnessed such intense motivation in his boss, such burning desire to get his hands on one particular magician. Apparently the witch was something special. According to Agro, she was more powerful than a lowly brute like Farriss could comprehend. To that, Farriss had merely bowed his head, because he didn’t understand. Agro was surrounded by unusually powerful magicians at all times. Why risk everything for one more?

Farriss searched the desk for a rolodex or an appointment book, finding neither. Since the rise in popularity of cell phones, address books were hard to come by. The cluttered desk was cleared where a computer should have been, which likely meant Gerald had taken his laptop home.

“Good,” Farriss muttered, heading for the filing cabinets. He hated hexless technology.

After manipulating the lock on the drawer marked A-C, he slid it open and vanished the glove on his left hand, illuminating the folders with supernatural light. Shortly into the Cs, he found a Callaway, but the first name was Katherine, not Layla. The next file belonged to a Caldwell then a Calvin.

“Shit.”

He pulled Katherine’s file and flipped it open. Maybe the suspicious lawyer secured Layla’s file after being questioned about her.

Using his magical light, Farriss scanned Katherine’s information, hoping she was connected to the witch. When he came across Katherine’s date of birth, he found a date of death as well—the second of January, 2010. Nearly three months before. It matched the information Farriss had gathered on Layla at the Gander Creek bar. Her mother—adopted mother actually—had passed away in January.

A sliver of relief rushed Farriss’ aching bones as he continued to scan Katherine’s file, looking for definitive proof. He found it on the second page. Katherine Callaway was the mother of twenty-one-year-old Layla Callaway. They’d been living in Gander Creek, Oklahoma since April 1989. Upon her death, Katherine left a large sum of money and an envelope to her daughter, both of which were collected on March 8th.

So, Layla Callaway, the deeply desired and powerful witch, had stood in that very office less than two weeks before, gathering her inheritance and an envelope of unknown content.

Farriss searched the rest of the documents, looking for bread crumbs that might lead to the witch’s current location, but the file lacked information older than 1989, and it didn’t list any other relatives or connections. The only clue Farriss found was a letter written by Katherine asking Gerald to settle a vehicle loan held by a bank in Ketchum, Idaho. Not much to go on, but at least it proved Farriss had followed orders. Perhaps he’d avoid a second dose of freezing wrath.

After committing a good portion of the file to memory, Farriss replaced the folder and secured the drawer, eager to return to camp. He pulled his glove on as he headed for the door. Then he froze as light poured into the hallway from the front lobby.

A man’s voice—Gerald’s voice—floated into the office. “Where did you leave it?”

“Your desk,” a woman answered. “I think.”

Gerald grumbled, his voice growing nearer. “How you manage to lose your cell every other day, I’ll never know. I’m going to glue it to your hand.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” she laughed. “If ya’d given me your keys, I coulda done this myself.”

“I didn’t want you here by yourself. You saw that man asking questions earlier.”

“He was pissed. But what do ya think he’d do? Break in…”

Her voice faded as she and Gerald halted at the open door of his office, nervously peering into the dim room.

“Did ya forget to lock up?” the woman asked.

“No,” Gerald answered.

“Was the security system on?” she pressed.

“I didn’t notice,” he mumbled, reaching around the corner for the light switch. “I just push the buttons. Maybe Dolores stopped by for something.”

Farriss watched from two feet away, his body magically concealed, frozen in more ways than one. He didn’t even breathe lest Gerald feel the air escape his lungs.

“There it is,” the woman exclaimed, moving into the office.

Her elbow nearly brushed Farriss’ cloak, so he took a step back and almost hit a coat rack.
Shit
. He was under strict instruction to leave the lawyer and his office unscathed, but if it came down to discovery or disaster, Farriss would have to choose the latter then pay the price.

Gerald followed the woman into the office, halting a foot from Farriss as he searched for something out of order. There wasn’t anything unusual to find, so he turned and watched his companion grab her cell phone from one of the chairs.

“Are ya gonna call Dolores?” she asked. “See if she stopped by?”

“I’ll call her when I get home,” Gerald answered, taking the woman’s hand. “I don’t want to be around if that guy comes back. I get enough interrogation in court.”

Gerald flipped off the lights then closed the door, and Farriss’ lungs deflated as he floated forward. Keys jingled as the lock clicked into place, and Farris reached for the door knob, but he didn’t turn it. He stood inert as he listened to the woman’s muffled reply, waiting for the conversation to fade away.

“What was he?” she asked. “Bounty hunter?”

“I’d say maybe,” Gerald replied, “but it doesn’t make sense considering the client.”

“Who’s the client?”

Farriss perked up, straining his ears as he magically maneuvered the lock and slowly turned the knob, cracking the door a few inches.

“Layla Callaway,” Gerald answered.

Farriss’ frozen bones seemed to sing, rejoicing in anticipated information that may save them from further torture.

“Layla,” the woman mumbled, trying to recall the name.

Farriss held his breath, silently begging for more. When it came, flowing from the sweet woman’s tongue, a heavy weight lifted.

“Layla,” she exclaimed, “the gal that moved to the west coast.”

BOOK: Impassion (Mystic)

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