Page 1 of Discovered Magic
1
Wilder Thorne woke in a cold sweat, his body both burning and freezing.
She was there again. Calling him from somewhere out of reach, even for a man with magic.
Abbie.
Goddess, he missed her. The feel of her silky skin against his, the smell of her minty shampoo, her constant teasing and laughter. She’d brought light and life wherever she went. Without her, he was a dried-up husk. Dead inside. Two years gone, and he was very well aware he needed to call a meeting with his inner demons to establish boundaries. But getting his shit together wasn’t easy. He dreamed of her nightly. Sometimes with crystal clarity, where she begged him to find her. At other times, she was a presence, faceless and silent, but still condemning him, a nightmare he couldn’t wake from.
“That fucking mountain,” he muttered.
He wished he’d never agreed to climb it. Wished they hadn’t been anywhere near the thing when the Thornes’ enemies cast their spell, stripping him of his power. Despite his objections, she’d insisted, trusting him to keep her safe. But Wilder had failed her, and there was no sugarcoating it.
He lay still, eyes sightlessly on the ceiling, with the fan’s hum the only sound. A haunted man with little hope left. His mind circled back to his relentless dreams and the feeling that Abbie was waiting for him, suspended between worlds. Alone.
And the hell of it was, he couldn’t be sure those dreams were real or not. They felt like memories or, if he was being fanciful, premonitions. Maybe he’d cracked and finally crossed the line between grief and delusion. It continually gnawed at him that his brother Laszlo had never encountered her spirit on the earthly plane. Did it mean she’d crossed over to the Otherworld? And if so, should Wilder appeal to his cousin Alastair in hopes the Goddess could confirm his fear?
These constant visions of her lingering in the distant past, beyond the present, were killing him. Yet what other explanation was there? Time travel? Yes, that type of magic existed for a rare few. Yes, Abbie’s mother was a witch, but she, herself, had no abilities to speak of.
The glowing digits on his phone told him it was early morning. Weird. He’d assumed it was just past midnight, given how little he’d slept. Lately, time blended, one giant melting pot of fucking blah.
“Enough!” he shouted to the empty room.
He needed the truth.
Today.
Wilder showered and dressed, giving his clothes a quick cleanliness sniff. Then he looked around the bedroom in disgust. Laundry was piled high. A handful of plates, along with an endless number of cups, littered the tops of dressers, side tables, and nightstands. The layer of dust on all available surfaces was thick enough to engrave his name. Yeah, he’d been a neat freak…before. But now, well, he couldn’t exactly blame anyone for staging an intervention, could he?
Closing his eyes, he visualized the room as it had once been: spotless, organized, and spring-fresh. A snap of his fingers brought it all back. When he opened his eyes, it was as if stepping into a memory, and it almost made him smile. It felt good to move in the right direction.
Next would be Ebba. If anyone could sniff out a magical anomaly, it was Ebba James. He needed her help.
Five minutes later, Wilder paced outside the building, stopping now and again to glance upward at her apartment. She was his sister’s best friend and his brother’s now-steady girlfriend. They’d known her since the girls were kids, and she possessed the kindest of souls. If Wilder were anything but obsessed with his own problems, he’d take the time to appreciate that she and Laszlo finally got themselves sorted after years spent dancing around each other.
But he promised himself there’d be cause for celebration if he could find Abbie.
He shuddered, recalling the day she’d slipped from the rock face.
* * *
“On belay?” Abbie called, clipping to the anchor. Her voice was stable despite the biting wind trying to whisk the sound away.
“Belay on,” Wilder answered, double-checking his Grigri and footing on the ledge. “You’re good.”
She flashed him a grin, fearless and radiant, before pushing upward. Once she started, her natural rhythm kicked in, and she flowed up the granite as if part of it. Her movements were clean and confident, those of a pro. The crampons bit into the ice-dusted rock while her chalked fingers sought the next hold, finding it with remarkable precision. She was poetry in motion, even on a class-five nightmare.
They were two pitches from the summit when it all went to hell.
The sky darkened, and clouds rolled in fast.
“Abbie?” he hollered, giving the slightest of chin gestures.
Although she noted the threat, she shook her head, not wanting to turn back.
He let her convince him, and deep inside, where his arrogance resided, he didn’t believe anything could go wrong, so he gave in. Still, a warlock with his power could become complacent, assuming they could handle any situation as it arose. It wouldn’t do to not take precautions.
A low rumble split through the air.
