Unbreakable (Waifwater Chronicles Book 1) Page 5

  He stared at her, silent for a long moment. “Abby.”

  “Yes?”

  “You haven’t hidden your face behind that…that extraordinary pink hair since we came in.”

  Immediately, she ducked her head and reached up to pull her hair over her face.

  He reached over the table and caught her wrist. “No.”

  “I…” She tried to jerk away.

  “No, Abby.”

  She turned her face away, but he caught her chin and with inexorable strength and calm determination, he forced her to face him.

  She kept her eyes cast down, unable to look at him.

  Seconds later, or minutes later, she really had no idea, she became aware that the alpha no longer held her chin or her wrist.

  His hot palm rested against her face, and he stroked her cheek with his thumb, gently, unceasingly.

  Waiting for something.

  She looked at him, finally.

  He smiled.

  There was no evil in his amber wolf eyes, no mockery in his strong, beautiful face. At last, he stood, went around to her side of the table, and leaned down to kiss her forehead.

  Her forehead.

  As though she were his niece or a pitiful cousin or a shy wallflower he pitied.

  And after he left, she sat unmoving for a long, long time.

  She’d almost let herself believe she had a chance with the alpha.

  How pitiful was that?

  Chapter Seven

  She sighed and forced herself to move. She might have been a hundred years old instead of thirty-three. Her body felt heavy, her leg muscles ached, and she was developing what promised to be a killer headache.

  But she had responsibilities, and she would not shirk them, no matter how much she wanted to sink into a hot bubble bath full of lotions and potions and wash away the day’s delights, horrors, and disappointments.

  She walked across the floor, hesitating before gathering the strength to go into the spell room. In the distance, the door Brooke had spotted glowed and then dimmed, pulsing with a yellow light that was usually hidden from eyes other than her own.

  She took the door key—a small, birch tree wand—off the wall, wishing for the thousandth time she had the skill to create an obedient wand.

  The wand she took as defense when she left her house was a wayward wand. It did what it wanted. Usually the mere sight of it was enough to turn a would-be attacker away, but sometimes, she had to actually use it.

  She almost always regretted it.

  One time she’d sent power from the wayward wand to keep three rogue shifters at bay. The wand had melded two of them together and had turned the third one into an enormous two-headed monster. That had been a very, very bad night.

  Once she’d used the wayward wand in town. It had burnt two shops to the ground and exploded a car.

  And one horrible, life-altering time, she’d killed with it deliberately. Had stabbed a man through his chest with the end of it and sent any power that wanted to come out right into his heart.

  Had stabbed him over and over and over…

  She swayed and leaned against the wall until she’d forced the memory out. There were some memories a person should hide from forever, despite advice to the contrary.

  Despite popular belief, not every witch had an obedient wand. Hardly any of them did. It took a special, very powerful, extremely talented witch to create an obedient wand. Abby had never even gotten close to building one.

  She shook off thoughts of difficult wands and dark memories, and pulled a small leather bag from one of the many drawers beneath the row of wands.

  Finally, she walked toward the glowing door.

  She’d tend her duty, and then she’d have her bath and maybe a bottle of wine. A fitting reward for a difficult day.

  She fitted the wand into the keyhole and placed the palm of her left hand into the imprint in the center.

  Then, she waited.

  “Go ahead.” A voice as wispy as baby hair floated through the ornate wood.

  Abby pressed her lips against the smooth, cool wood. “It is I, Abigail the Immortal, daughter of Basilia.” She took her mouth away from the door. “Let me in, Mother.”

  There was a slight hesitation as her words reached the ears of the gatekeeper, the babysitter, the mother.

  “Finish it,” Basilia insisted.

  “Mother…”

  “Go on, child. Say the rest. You must never forget.”

  As if.

  “Offspring of the absent sorcerer, Henry Cameron,” Abby continued, reluctantly. “The guardian of the demon child, Jewel. Cursed by Acadia Desrochers. The protector of the pocket. I am Abby.”

  Her mother gave a quiet, raw sob.

  Abby had been repeating the same words since she’d been thirteen years old and her world had been destroyed—and the pocket had been created.

  And every time she did, it made her mother cry—but Basilia would not let her inside otherwise.

  The door slid open, just enough to allow Abby’s slight form to squeeze through.

  Sometimes, her mother was paranoid.

  Oh, Father…

  Abby pushed the dismal thoughts away, as she always did. Those deeds were done and living in the past was never a good idea.

  The room she entered was no more of a room than the universe was a room. It swelled and shrank, grew dark and light, and went on forever.

  It was a secret pocket of reality. A hidden pocket.

  Her father had created it before he’d…

  Before he’d gone battling and screaming into the ether with Acadia the demon witch.

  The responsibility for the pocket and those inside was Abby’s, and Abby’s alone, and she bore it willingly.

  She pulled Basilia into a hug, noting with concern the bony feel of her mother’s once plump body. She’d grown pale but her cheeks looked bright with fever. Her hair, once as thick and healthy as Abby’s, clung to her scalp with thin, lackluster strands.

  “Mother, you’re not taking care of yourself,” Abby admonished.

  “I’m fine,” Basilia replied, absently, as she darted faded gray eyes from shadow to shadow, tree to tree. Searching, of course, for the child.

  “How is she?”

  Basilia gestured helplessly and shrugged. “The same as she always is.”

  Abby sighed. “I’ll find her, but let me tend to you first.”

  Her mother shook her head impatiently. “Search for Jewel. She hides from me these days.”

  Abby squeezed her mother’s frail shoulder. “It’s just a phase, Mama.”

  Basilia’s smile was wan, but her eyes, the same steely blue-gray as Abby’s, held nothing but affection when she looked at her daughter.

  But that was untrue. They held other things—guilt, for one. The sharp glint of psychosis. Loneliness. Regret.

  Abby shook her head and forced her own unhealthy guilt away. She took Basilia’s hand and poured the contents of the bag into it.

  Basilia’s face transformed immediately with a genuinely happy smile. “Oh, my! I do love the candy you bring, sweetheart.”

  Abby didn’t reply. She didn’t bring candy to her mother. She brought medicine, medicine she’d bespelled to acquire the taste and look of creamy, rich chocolate.

  Her mother knew, surely she knew, but she allowed herself to be fooled. It didn’t matter. As long as she took the medicine, she would be fine.

  It kept her…content. It helped her tolerate her situation.

  “This universe,” Basilia said, abruptly gesturing at the world around them, “expands and contracts. Did you know?”

  Abby sighed. “Did something frighten you?”

  Her mother often saw things that weren’t there. Sometimes she saw things and heard voices from the past—usually when the time was nearing for her next dose of medicine.

  Basilia looked at her but her stare was absent. “There is more here than you realize. The world doesn’t hold only Jewel and old Basilia, dear
est.”

  “I’ll keep watch for strangers, Mother. If I see one, I’ll send him on his way.” She waved her wand gently. “I’ll vanish him.”

  Her mother’s eyes sparkled. “Don’t be a silly goose. That wand could barely raise a mark if you hit someone with it.” Then she turned serious and leaned in closer to her daughter. “But I have a wand that can do much.”

  Abby sighed. “You’ve been making things again.”

  Basilia drew back suddenly, her stare sharpening as she finally focused on Abby’s face. “My daughter.”

  “What?” Abby rubbed her arms, suddenly chilled. “What is it?”

  “You’ve been out of the hollow.” Yes, the medicine worked that fast. Basilia’s sanity began to trail back into her broken mind.

  “And I’m fine.”

  “You went into town,” Basilia said, her voice deceptively mild. “And they hurt you.”

  “No, Mother. I’m just tired. All I need is a warm bath.” Abby smiled, but her mother’s face never softened.

  “It has taken me many years and much coercion,” she said, “but I have made something for you. Come.” And suddenly strong, she grasped Abby’s arm and began to drag her away. “We must go home to fetch your gift.”

  And though she understood her mother was occasionally lost in the past, that wasn’t one of those times.

  Her mother had something for her, and Abby hoped it proved a little less dangerous than the accursed wooden spike she’d given her the year before.

  “Something else,” Basilia said as they walked. “There’s a man.”

  “What? Where?” Abby looked around, but saw no one.

  “In your life.” She glanced at Abby slyly. “You can’t keep such things from me.”

  “There is no man. You’re imagining things.” She kept her voice even and calm, but there was no hiding from her mother.

  “Sweetheart.” Basilia’s voice was full of sympathy. “I’m sorry.”

  “There is no man,” Abby repeated.

  “If he could only see how lovely you are—”

  “But he can’t, can he?” Abby softened her harsh tone. “There’s no use talking about it.”

  “One of the many reasons you should never leave the hollow. Nothing good ever comes of it.” She gave a sharp nod. “But I’m glad you’ve come to accept your circumstances, Abby. I will do the same. You’re right. There’s no sense wishing for the impossible.”

  “I’ll look like this forever. The spell is unbreakable.” She was tempted to tell her mother that someone had seen her, but it would only have made things worse.

  “As are you, my sweet child.”

  “That’s right.” Abby stiffened her spine and lifted her chin.

  Her mother was silent for a long, heavy moment. “How I hate that evil, bitter monster.”

  Acadia wasn’t the only one worthy of their hatred, but Abby simply nodded and kept her feelings about her father to herself. Her mother would hear nothing untoward about her husband, no matter what he’d done.

  “It’s better like this, anyway,” Abby said. “I don’t want to fall in love. I’m immortal, thanks to either my whore of a father or his whore of a mistress.” She ignored her mother’s sharp look. “My future would be full of grief and sorrow.”

  Ordinarily, had Abby spoken so disrespectfully of her father, Basilia would have slapped her. Maybe time was making her less forgiving of Henry, or maybe she was just less inclined to defend him.

  “Perhaps it’s better to hold love in your heart for a little while than to be alone forever, Abby.”

  “Not in my opinion.”

  Basilia shook her head. “My poor baby.” Her voice was as mournful as Elmer’s howl.

  “I’m fine.”

  “You always say that.”

  “It’s always true.”

  They walked down a long, white path with fragrant, flowering bushes on either side, and Abby allowed herself to relax and enjoy the safety and peacefulness of her mother’s private little pocket of the world.

  They arrived finally at Basilia’s house, a small, neat cottage surrounded by plants, bright flowers, and bent, knotted trees.

  If someone managed to kill Abby, Basilia and Jewel would be stuck inside the pocket—alone, forgotten, unable to get anything they needed. Their deaths would be slow in coming, but death would come, and it would be harsh.

  Neither one of them could ever leave the pocket. Basilia because of a cancer whose progression had halted the second Henry pushed her through the door, and Jewel, because Acadia’s minions would be on her like a heat seeking missile the second she exited the pocket.

  Yet another reason Abby was reluctant to leave her land. It was too dangerous for her mother and Jewel.

  Immortality only meant she’d live forever unless someone found a way to kill her.

  Everything—Abby’s ugliness, her immortality, the pocket—had happened because Henry Cameron had an affair with a demon witch.

  “Come inside,” Basilia said, ushering Abby inside her home. “I get so little company these days.” She shot Abby a wry smile.

  Abby laughed. Sometimes she found her mother drowning in a sea of depression, unable to swim her way out—medicine or no medicine.

  Those were hard days.

  “I have a list,” Basilia said, bustling around her small kitchen. “Remind me before you leave.”

  Every shelf in the kitchen was overflowing with containers of foods and herbs and spices, and the cupboard was full as well. Basilia tended her vegetable, herb, and flower gardens with an obsessive, joyful love. They kept her busy and gave her food and beauty.

  Once every three months or so, she sent Abby away with a list of supplies she needed, and those were the few times a year Abby visited the outside world.

  “Has Becky visited?” Basilia asked.

  Becky the telepath was the only outsider who knew about the pocket, but not even she knew where it was or how to enter it.

  “I haven’t heard from her. You know how she is. One day she’ll just show up and…” She shrugged. “Then we’ll see.”

  “I miss that child,” Basilia said.

  Abby sat at the small table and watched her mother. “Are you okay, Mama? I mean, really okay?”

  Basilia dragged a stepstool to the pantry and pulled a paper-wrapped parcel from the top shelf.

  She hurried back to Abby, smiling. “I’m happy, sweetheart, and I’m well. Unwrap this whilst I make you some coffee.” For a second, a storm cloud passed through her eyes, but she shook off whatever thoughts plagued her and retrieved her smile.

  As her mother busied herself with coffee, Abby tore into the package, a hard little knot of excitement in her stomach.

  There was no doubt Basilia could make amazing things. Usually they were unusable, but amazing just the same.

  Ten years previously she’d sent Abby home with a piece of green, folded cloth she swore would protect Abby’s home from “invaders.” Abby had faithfully nailed the cloth to the exterior door, and had awakened in the wee hours of the morning to find the house on fire.

  Two years before that she’d given Abby a small ring she’d fashioned from a twist of old metal and a piece of agate. It had taken control of Abby’s hand and she’d nearly beaten herself to death before she was able to get the ring off her finger.

  Basilia meant well, but she was just a little…off with her spells.

  Abby tossed the paper away and stared, awestruck, at the wand her mother had created.

  “Mother, you did beautiful work on this wand.” Abby waved it around, gently, holding her breath. Nothing troublesome happened and she relaxed a little.

  “Thank you, darling. I spent many hours bleeding, sweating—and, truth be told, swearing—to get it perfect for you.”

  Abby ran her fingers over the small, smooth surface, cupping gently the exquisitely curved, smoothly knotted wand. It felt right in her hand. It felt right in her soul. “Tell me about it.”

  “You
first,” her mother said, glancing over her shoulder. “What has happened, Abby?”

  Abby sighed. “All right, Mother. The Waifwater wolf alpha came to visit me because I made a terrible mistake. I inadvertently put his pack in danger because I…” She paused, unwilling to admit to her mother how careless she’d been.

  “Go on,” Basilia encouraged.

  “A member of his pack told me she needed protection from him, that he beat her and was planning to allow his wolves to…to rape her.”

  Her mother turned around, an extra-large coffee mug in her hand. “What have you done, Abigail?”

  Abby cleared her throat. “I gave her the fade spell.” She kept her stare resolutely on the wand.

  “Oh dear.”

  “Turns out Brooke was lying. She wanted to steal the pack’s amulet of protection, give it to a rival pack, and rise through the pack ranks to lead at the new alpha’s side. She was a silly girl.”

  “Pots and kettles,” Basilia murmured.

  “Mother!”

  Basilia raised an eyebrow, poured Abby’s coffee, and hurried it to her. “Just the way you like it, dear.”

  Abby set the cup on the table, then grabbed her mother’s hand and rubbed it against her cheek. “I miss you, Mama.”

  Basilia pressed her lips together and blinked suddenly watering eyes. “I’m sorry I’m not always here, child.”

  Abby shook her head. “No. Don’t be sorry for anything. You’re my rock, no matter what. And you have absolutely nothing to apologize for.”

  Basilia patted her hand. “I would hear more about your young man.”

  “He’s not my anything. I was simply near a man. That doesn’t mean we’re in love.”

  “Of course not, dear.”

  Abby rolled her eyes. “Anyway.” She traced the wand with a gentle finger, unable, once again, to look her mother in the eye.

  “Oh no. There’s bad news.”

  Abby took a deep breath and curled her hands into fists. “His name is Eli Dean. He’s William Dean’s grandson.”

  Basilia lost what little color she had left and clutched the back of a chair.

  Abby jumped up and took her arm, then lowered her into the chair. “I’ll get you some water.”

  “Well,” Basilia said, fanning herself. “There you are, then. There you are.”