Soulceress (The Mythean Arcana Series Book 2) (6 page)

“You really think she’ll agree to help us?” Cora’s words shook him out of his thoughts.

“I’ll see to it that she agrees. She’ll come to you. Tonight.”

“All right, if you say so.” Doubt and hope warred in her brown eyes.
 

“I do.” Warren turned and left the sticky heat of the greenhouse, wishing there were any other soulceress he could ask for help.

There was no reason she would want to help him, not after he’d been such an arse to her, but she was his only hope.

CHAPTER SIX

Esha leaned on the sill of her open window, nursing bad coffee and an even worse hangover. The bright noon sun burned cruelly into her retinas as she gazed out at the university campus.

She lived in a tower on the north side, which gave her an excellent view of the rolling green hills and the massive stone buildings of the university in the distance. The tower had once been a guard tower, but the space at the top had been modified into a flat long before she’d joined the university staff.
 

Last night had been such a bust. She laughed bitterly. But it
was
both entertaining and horrifying that she, Esha, queen of the outcasts with no court, was mooning after one of the most respected members of the university. And that she would choose to pursue her infatuation in such a spastic way.
 

But she was so done with that. After he’d left her, she’d gone back into the pub, picked a spot in the corner, and switched from beer to whiskey. Contrary to popular belief, the whiskey had actually cleared her head.
 

Warren wanted her, but he was too much of a coward or an asshole to admit it. And she was an idiot who had tried twice to convince him to give her a chance.
Twice.
 

Embarrassing is what that was. She needed to get her act together.

The Chairman meowed, deep and low, as if he could read her thoughts and agreed.

“Oh, shut up,” she said, glaring at him.
 

He just watched her with knowing citrine eyes from where he lounged by the little fire.

“Be nice or I’ll extinguish your fire,” she said.

He gave her a look that said
as if.
But he was right. She was all talk. She’d never douse his beloved fire, and it was evidence of how screwed up Warren made her that she would even suggest it.
 

Esha looked back out at the emerald green of the lawn and the sapphire blue of the sky. Everything was shot through with jewel tones today, as if the earth didn’t know that she was in a shitty mood. She tried to focus on the beauty in front of her, but was instead drawn into her memory, to the time when her vague interest in her distant colleague had bloomed into stupid infatuation.

A few years ago, she’d just finished making a contracted kill in Edinburgh and had been walking back to her car through the quiet city streets. It had been a Sunday, hence the quiet lull, which had made it easy for her to spot a familiar figure ducking into the Veterans’ League.

Curiosity had tugged at her. What was Warren doing at the Veterans’ League? It was for mortals, not Mytheans, and the two rarely mixed.

Because it had been a drizzly gray morning and his head had been bowed, he hadn’t noticed her. But she’d never mistake him for anyone else. Determined to figure out what he was doing, she’d crept into the alley at the side of the building and peered through the rain-streaked window to see Warren in a makeshift workshop with a couple of other men.
 

The others were younger, boys almost, and one was missing a leg while another wore some type of brace on his back. From the wars in the Middle East, she assumed, since it was one of the few places that British mortal soldiers were fighting. They’d been building beautiful wooden furniture in the workshop, and Warren looked to be helping the men with their projects.
 

He was teaching them?

Esha had returned every Sunday for a month and peered through the same window, never making contact with him. She’d eventually confirmed that Warren was some kind of mentor to injured soldiers suffering the effects of war, and the medium he used to help them was woodworking.
 

But he had also benefited. His step was a little lighter, and the lines around his eyes a little less deep when he left.

She’d forced herself to stop going after she figured out what he was doing. As much as she liked watching him, stalking him was just weird.
 

Her phone buzzed and jerked her out of the past. Gratefully, she shook the memories away and turned from the window to find her phone.
 

She scowled when she saw the name attached to the text message.

Warren. Of course. And it was about work, so she couldn’t ignore it.

She sighed, disgusted and annoyed with the way her day was going, then glared at her coffee and chugged it. It was lukewarm and kind of gross, but she needed the caffeine if she was going to face him with this hangover.

An hour later, after standing in the shower and staring at the wall for twenty minutes mulling over what an idiot she’d been, Esha tromped across the rolling campus to Warren’s office. The last of autumn’s leaves crunched beneath her boots.
 

“Why do you think he wants to meet with us?” Esha asked the Chairman.

Though the Chairman didn’t answer, she was pretty sure she saw him shrug his little cat shoulders. She took it as a sign to continue talking as they reached a cluster of stone buildings. She might as well. He was her sounding board when her only other friend, Ana, wasn’t around.

“I wouldn’t even be doing this if it wasn’t for work.” But Warren’s parting jab about loyalty had stung. He was wrong. She stuck by her commitments, and she’d made one to the Praesidium when she’d joined.
 

The Chairman meowed his support. She glanced down at his disheveled black form. Nah, that hadn’t been support. He just wanted tuna.
 

“Later, dude,” she told him. “First we’ve got to see what Warren wants.”

 
They arrived at the main cobblestone courtyard that sat in the middle of the biggest buildings on campus. She ran up the expansive stone steps, through the great wooden door to the building that housed the Praesidium, across the sunlit atrium and down a wide, wood-paneled hallway.
 

The oak door of his office was closed, but she didn’t bother to knock. “You rang?” She asked as she strolled in, the Chairman trotting at her heels.

“Doona like to knock?” He glared at her from behind his desk and dragged a hand through his rumpled hair.

Unable to help herself, she admired the way his gray t-shirt stretched across his broad chest. His green eyes were tired, but the rest of him looked tense, muscles bunched and ready to pounce on any threat that walked through the door. Though she’d never actually seen him fight, he had a dangerous air that was unmistakable and hard not to like.
 

Stop it, you moron.

She jerked her gaze away from him and looked around the room. The book-filled office was dim, the kind of light that someone with a headache would prefer. Coffee cups littered the desk. “Not sleeping much?” she asked.

“No, damn it.”
 

Had he not slept because of last night? But he didn’t mention it and was playing this professionally, and her pride demanded that she do so too. “Fine. Why did you call me up here?”

“I’ve got an assignment for you.”

A warm little rush passed over her at the words. Self-preservation crushed it. “Oh?”
 

When he’d asked her to be a consultant for the Mythean Guard a few weeks ago, she’d jumped at the chance to be part of a team. She wasn’t used to working with one, had initially been shocked by the offer and had almost turned it down. But with a little thought, it sounded damned appealing. This would be the first assignment he’d given her.

“Aye, the Witch Council needs help with a particularly difficult spell.”

“Those losers? Don’t they have enough power in their little club to pull it off?” Well, there went professionalism.
 

“No, they doona have anyone as powerful as you.”

“So true.” She smiled. “Normally I don’t mix with witches, though.”

“It’s your job now.”

“True.” And truth be told, she liked that she was part of the Praesidium. Part of a team. “When do I go?”

“Tonight would be best. Sooner, the better.”

She had no problem with that. No plans tonight anyway. “Okay. Anyone else from the Praesidium going to help?”

“No, they said witches only, or I’d be there.”

So she’d be alone. With the witches. But she didn’t need any help. Hell, partners from the Praesidium would only slow her down.
 

“This is important, Esha. You canna screw this up.”

She glared at him. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of the Chairman arching his back, disheveled midnight fur sticking out at all angles. “Screw this up? Tell me, Warren, when was the last time I screwed anything up?”
 

He ignored the question, no doubt knowing he had no answer. “Let me know how it goes.”

“Fine.” She stood and walked toward the door. The Chairman slunk after her. “Tell them that I’ll be there at nine.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

A girl could only take so much, Esha thought as she stomped toward the Witch Council’s section of campus later that night.
 

The Chairman stalked along beside her, the cold autumn wind ruffling his fur and making her tug up the zipper of her short leather jacket. She loved this time of year, when the leaves blew off the trees and swirled through the crisp air. It wasn’t enough to save her mood today, though.

Her friend Andrasta appeared straight out of thin air, and Esha jumped.

“Damn it, Ana, a little warning next time.” But she grinned at her friend, who had just broken through the aether from Otherworld, the land of the Celtic gods. The aether was an ephemeral substance that connected everything and allowed certain individuals to use it as a medium for immediate travel. Esha used it to aetherwalk, which Ana could do as well

“Gimme a break. You know I can only sneak out of Otherworld when the other gods are occupied. And it’s not like I can call you to let you know I’m coming.” Ana smiled at her before she began to twirl in the moonlight, hopping around like a demented fairy. Her accent suited her persona—the odd mixed Celtic of Otherworld’s gods combined with the modern movies she cherished. “Earth totally rocks.”

The moonlight highlighted the petite frame and shining blond hair of the Celtic goddess of victory. Esha had always thought that Andrasta, with her leather breastplate and the bow strapped over her shoulder, fit right in with the haunted-house setting of the university at night better than she ever did. Esha’s customary uniform of jeans, boots, and a leather jacket were meant to blend in with the world outside of the campus, since she spent so much time there.

“Ah, that feels great,” Ana said, as some of her immortal power flowed from her body and into Esha’s. Esha shivered as her skin tingled from the transfer. There was no way to control it—it just happened whenever she was around another Mythean. Because Ana was a god, she provided a huge surge of power.

“Damn, I feel like I could throw a fireball the size of the moon right now.” Esha shook her hands to get rid of the tingles.

“You should. That’s some grade-A god power,” Ana said.

 
Esha grinned. Ana had been mortal before she’d been made a god. She’d spent the last thousand years pining for life on earth. Having her power drained by Esha made her feel more mortal. It was the only time that another Mythean actually appreciated Esha’s ability.
 

Mytheans normally hated the feeling of having the power of their immortal souls sucked away, even temporarily, to fuel a being who could use it to manifest any of her desires. The ability made Esha’s one of the most reviled species that walked the earth.
 

“It’s been weeks since I’ve seen you. How did you get out this time?”