The End of Magic (The Witches of Echo Park #3)(59)

She put the cell phone to her ear.

"Hello?"

She listened for a moment, disbelief dawning across her face.

"Who is it?" Freddy asked, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet.

Dev removed the phone from her ear and set it on top of the Dream Journal, engaging the speakerphone. 

". . . and Auntie E is here, too, and the Tall Lady . . . and we can make things happen that are like magic . . . you're talking too much, Ginny . . . No, you're talking too much, Marji . . ."

A tear rolled down Dev's cheek as, together, she and Freddy huddled around Eleanora's round oak table, listening to their daughters reaching out to them from across many universes.





Lyse





Lyse had heard the commotion in the hallway-saw Arrabelle taking off after an excited Niamh, both women heading for Daniela's room-and knew something had happened. Logic told her that Daniela had woken up . . . there was no way she could've taken a turn for the worse. But that didn't make her feel any better as she ran down the long white hall, the squeak of her sneakers echoing through the corridor. She could feel her heart rate increasing, hear the hiss of her own labored breathing in her ears.

She was not paying attention to her surroundings, her worry for Daniela ruling her senses. She didn't see the well-built man with the silver cropped hair until he'd stepped out in front of her. Her instincts kicked in and she screeched to a stop on the linoleum-tiled floor, hands out in front of her as if to ward off an attack. The silver-haired man wore a snarl of disdain. It was obvious he hated her, and he didn't make any bones about it.

She began to back away from him, a surge of fear-based adrenaline shooting through her. Every encounter she'd had with her long-lost uncle David had ended badly . . . and she was pretty sure this one was destined for the same outcome.

"Leave me alone, you son of a bitch." She spat the words at him, anger taking over.

"That's not a nice thing to say about Eleanora. Though I concur. My mother-your grandmother-was a real bitch."

She was shaking, her impotent rage blossoming into tears. As she fought them back, praying they wouldn't fall, she realized how weak it made her feel when her anger crested over the peak into emotion. Every time she needed to appear strong, the emotional side kicked in, undercutting her strength.

"You don't even get to say her name. Murderer."

He cocked his head and narrowed his eyes, really looking at her.

"I did her a favor," he said, finally, and shrugged.

"A favor?" Lyse was incredulous. What the hell was wrong with this guy? "You killed her. You took the most sacred thing in the world-someone else's life-and you crushed it."

He took a step toward her, and she unconsciously moved back, reaching out with a hand to brace herself against the corridor wall. She did not intend to let him push her back any more than he already had . . . because every step she took put the power dynamic more firmly in his favor.

"Are you frightened of me?" he asked, and she could sense his excitement radiating outward, gunning for her.

Everything inside of her ached to put more distance between them, but she held her ground. She would not let her fear of him bully her into submission.

"That's not fear. It's disgust," she said, putting as much passion as she could into her words. "Because I find you repulsive."

He laughed, a low and malevolent thing that made the hairs on the back of her neck rise to attention. Gooseflesh broke out along her arms and she was, once again, tempted to give over and step away . . . but she steeled herself and did not move.



       
         
       
        

"Laugh all you want," she said. "You're not winning this thing."

He shook his head, eyebrow raised.

"What thing?" he asked.

"You and The Flood. You're not getting this world. Not if it's the last thing I do."

"Well, that's a given," he said. "That it's the last thing you're going to do. And you're going to fail at it. Just like you do with everything else in your life."

His words were like bullets, each one primed to hit her in one of her weak spots. They were strategically played to worm their way inside her and ferret out her insecurities, splitting her confidence apart from the inside out. He knew he'd hit the mark, saw the emotional impact on her face, and was gleeful, pleased at his ability to wound her.

"Really?" Lyse asked after she'd caught her breath. "Did you think I'd go down so easily?"

"You've let everyone down. Your coven is in ruins and Daniela is dying," he said.