Chapter Fourteen

While traveling the globe in his search for Layla, the stranger had learned many things, one of them being that most magicians preferred to launch their businesses in tourist towns near the finest displays of nature. Oregon was full of nature, but the pacific coast boasted the best of both ocean and land, so when the stranger left Portland, he flew west until he reached Garibaldi – a tiny town next to Tillamook Bay.

A quick search of Garibaldi yielded only one business owned by magicians, and the aromatherapy shop sat right off the Oregon Coast Highway, drawing a steady stream of hexless shoppers, who were tended to by three magicians.

Another thing the stranger had learned during his quest for Layla – social covens kept close tabs on their neighbors. If the stranger were to expose himself to the magical entrepreneurs in the area, his questions would soon get back to the Conn/Kavanagh coven, and his disguise was merely a veil, easily torn away should he draw the attention of cautious locals.

The stranger wouldn’t always remain a mystery. The veil was destined to come off, but it would be on his terms, not a paranoid shopkeeper with nothing better to do than stir up drama, so he decided not to question the magicians in the aromatherapy shop. Instead, he blended in with a group of bored men and eavesdropped on the clerks’ conversations.

For all he knew, the three attendants were members of the Conn/Kavanagh coven, so he hoped for a treasure trove of information, but he heard nothing useful until a shopper inquired about locally grown produce.

“There’s a great place outside of Rockaway Beach,” a clerk offered, “the town north of here.” Then she explained how to get there while drawing a map for her customer.

Following the clerk’s detailed directions, the stranger flew toward a produce stand located five miles northeast of Rockaway Beach. The clerk had warned her customer that the stand was out in the middle of nowhere on a dirt road, and the stranger was pleased to see she didn’t exaggerate. The muddy path climbed a hill as it cut through thick timber, curving until town and ocean disappeared.

Staying concealed, the stranger approached a clear cut containing a large greenhouse with an old wizard at its entrance. A hand-painted billboard displaying prices was folded out beside a rocking chair, in which the old man sat under an awning, swaying with the wind as he read a book.

The stranger quietly alighted on a branch then expanded his mind to the edges of the clearing, finding nothing but woodland creatures. He and the old man were alone. Perfect.

The stranger flew from the branch and returned to the front of the greenhouse, rubbing his chin and jaw as he landed several yards away from his mark. He slid his hands through his hair as he lifted his concealment spells. Then he slipped on a pair of sunglasses and casually walked forward.

“Good book?” he greeted.

The rocking chair squeaked to a halt as the old man closed his literature and leaned forward, stretching the fingers of his right hand.

“Guess not,” the stranger went on, scanning the man’s wary aura.

“What can I do for you?” the seller asked, setting his book aside.

The stranger halted his approach and held his hands out in peace, attempting to play nice. “I hear you have the best produce in the area.”

“Where did you hear that?”

“Another shop. Did they speak the truth?”

“They did. I’m a wholesaler for local covens. Some produce is grown in here,” he added, pointing a thumb at the greenhouse, “but the bulk is imported.”

“You get that much business?” the stranger asked, looking down the dirt road.

“We deliver to hexless retailers and restaurants,” the man explained, rising from his chair. After scanning the stranger from head to toe, he smoothed his expression, but his aura broadcasted his unyielding distrust. “So what brings you to the area? Visiting a local?”

“Yeah,” the stranger answered, resuming his trek. “Mind if I take a look at your product? I need to impress a witch with dinner.”

“Don’t we all?” the man returned, waving him in.

The stranger smiled as he passed the local and entered the greenhouse, but he wasn’t the least bit happy with the situation. No way would this man willingly let him get close enough to rummage through his brain. “Surely a wizard with your experience has been tied down long enough to avoid such silly endeavors.”

“My wife died three years ago,” the local replied, following his customer inside. “Why don’t you take off those glasses so you can find what you’re looking for? Who did you say you’re visiting?”

“I didn’t,” the stranger answered, deciding there wasn’t a peaceful way to get the job done.

He swiftly rotated, and before the old man could widen his eyes, the stranger had his gray hair in one hand and his swollen larynx in the other.

“Son of a bitch,” the seller rasped, raising a palm.

“Nuh-uh,” the stranger objected, and a magical cord slid around the man’s wrists, yanking them to his sides. “If you fight me, you will die.”

“Who are you?”

“Somebody looking for answers, and you’re going to give them to me. Then I’ll rid your mind of this encounter.”

“You’ll get no cooperation from me.”

“Then I’ll take it.”

The stranger spread his hand out over the old man’s skull, and was bombarded by broken and senseless thoughts. “Stop blocking,” he ordered, giving him a shake.

“I don’t know what you seek,” the man choked.

“Information on a coven, the Conn/Kavanaghs.”

The local’s eyes grew huge as he fought his restraints. “Go to hell.”

“Been there. Now give me everything you know about the Conn/Kavanagh coven – where they live, how many members they have, how many males, females and children. If you know it, I want to know it. Understand?”

“You’ll get nothing from me,” the local resisted. “And I suggest you go back to where you came from. Mess with that coven, and you might as well sign your own death warrant.”

“Why?”

“They are stronger than you’ll ever be.”

“A bold statement considering how quickly you fell victim to my power.”

“I’m not talking about power.”

The stranger furrowed his eyebrows as he took the bait. “Then what are you talking about?”

“A gift,” the man answered, growing still. “A blessing people like you will always underestimate.” No longer did he pull at his bindings, but his thoughts remained jumbled.

“Which is?” the stranger urged.

“Love and loyalty,” the man whispered. Then he lunged forward, leaving severed hairs in his captor’s hand as he freed his neck. He whirled around, his wrinkled lips stretching as his bony fingers flexed, and flames rolled from his throat as the earth shifted and crumbled.

“Shit,” the stranger cursed, whipping his hands up.

A misty barrier flowed from his palms, resisting the bulk of the blast, but flames rolled around the shield and singed his arms. Mud swallowed his calves, wreaking havoc on his balance, and the local was taking a deep breath, preparing to belch more flames. Clever old fart.

“Enough,” the stranger yelled, flicking a wrist, and his foe flew backward, crashing into a row of tomato plants before crumpling to the ground. The earth beneath the stranger stilled, and he trudged from loose soil, his gaze glued to the fool who’d sentenced himself to death.

Running healing hands over his arms, the stranger crossed the greenhouse, determined to break open the local’s mind before dispatching him, but as he approached the body, the stubborn elder jerked upright and threw another spell from stretched fingertips.

Summoned vines lurched at the stranger, encircling his neck, and he grasped at the plants while narrowing his eyes. “You just drew your last breath,” he wheezed, lips growing numb.

Fighting for air, he pried his fingers from the thriving flora then aimed a palm at the determined old man. The local dropped to the dirt, convulsing and gurgling blood. Then the deadly vines withered as their caster went limp, drained of life and any knowledge he held on his neighbors.

“Damn,” the stranger mumbled, rubbing his throat as he brushed dead leaves from his shoulders. “We could have done this the easy way.”

He stepped forward and knelt, checking the man for a pulse, but it was obvious by his absent aura and the blood running from his ears that he was dead.

“You saw that, right?” the stranger called to the sky, to the souls who’d warned him to tread lightly. “I had no choice.”

Of course they didn’t answer. He found them only in the deepest moments of meditation, so he sighed and looked at his victim. “Damn you,” he scorned, picking up a tomato plant. “Now I have to clean your mess.”