Bloodlines and Broomsticks

By Robyn Bachar

Liars and tigers and weres, oh my!

Riley O’Driscoll’s perfect life cracked thanks to her nasty divorce, and then her world shattered when her beloved grandmother’s murder left her with a surprise inheritance of magic and mayhem. Riley has less than a year to learn a lifetime’s worth of witchcraft, and after a career of academic excellence Riley has only failed in two subjects: love and magic.

When witch hunters break down Riley’s door, a miscast spell sends her through the looking glass and into the path of sexy shapeshifter Jeremiah Galestrom. Jere was an agent of the Wild Hunt—an elite team of sorcerers sworn to protect magiciankind by hunting dangerous shapeshifters—who was infected and left for dead after his team was massacred. His faerie family saved his life, but his rescue left him trapped in Faerie with no hope of escape—until Riley arrives.

They strike a bargain that trades a year of Jeremiah’s protection for Riley’s help, and Riley finds herself with a new roommate who’s a real tiger. With the hunters closing in, can Riley trust her life—and her heart—with a man who is counting the days to his freedom? And while Jeremiah knows he can protect Riley from the hunters, can he protect her from himself, and the wild magic within him?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robyn Bachar
• Release date: Oct 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463637517

Robyn Bachar

Robyn Bachar writes romance with swords, sorcery, spaceships and submersibles. Bachar's novels feature action and adventure, danger and suspense, found families and happily ever afters. Her books have finaled twice in the PRISM Contest for Published Authors, twice in the Passionate Plume Contest, and twice in the EPIC eBook Awards.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

I s there a syllabus for this? I asked.

No. Stop stalling. The faerie standing beside me at the kitchen table frowned as she peered down the slant of her narrow green nose.

I’m not stalling. It’s a valid question. Education needs structure. If I had a better grasp of the curriculum and how instruction typically progresses—

Creating fire is a basic skill, Beatrice said. Every magician can do this.

Every magician but me.

A misty lump caught in my throat, and I blinked at the unlit candle listing to the right in its chunky glass holder. The unchanged white taper appeared as pristine as it had when I’d peeled away its plastic wrap. I breathed deep, focused on the wick and visualized it blackening and bursting into red-orange flame. Beatrice was big on visualization, as though the strength of my imagination alone would unlock my dormant magic. I wasn’t sure what was supposed to happen. Should magic feel different? Some sort of warm, tingly, glowy sensation? But no, the candle remained unlit, and the lump in my throat threatened to choke me.

I found my voice after a few hard swallows. I can’t do it.

Riley Colleen O’Driscoll, that is nonsense! You come from a long line of witches. Your grandmother could cast this in her sleep. Beatrice placed her hands on her practically nonexistent hips and glowered like an angry sapling. Which wasn’t far from the truth—she was a willow faerie. An Emerald Willow, to be precise.

And she had years of training, I countered. I spent my entire life believing that magic isn’t real. You can’t expect me to unlearn that in a few months.

But you’ve made much progress for such a short period, Beatrice said. These things must come one step at a time, and this is the first step.

A first step that felt more like a twenty-foot pole vault. The wooden slats of the kitchen chair dug into my back as I fidgeted and wallowed in my misery. It’d been less than a month since Grandma died. It didn’t seem real—hell, nothing seemed real anymore. Grandma had gone in for routine surgery, an in-and-out procedure. She should have been discharged the next day, but she never came home. Complications, the hospital said. Massive blood loss. Either the hospital didn’t know that she’d been murdered by a vampire—master necromancer was the official term, which was a being who fed on the blood of living magicians to fuel eternal life. Or the administration didn’t care enough about one less senior citizen to investigate the cause of said unexplained massive blood loss.

It was hard enough losing her—I was close to my grandmother. I thought I’d known her well, but thanks to my inheritance I discovered an entire secret side of her life. Grandma was a witch. An honest-to-goodness, double-double-toil-and-trouble witch. And not just any witch, because she’d been half human, half faerie, and way powerful. She’d served as Titania for the Midwest—a liaison between our area and the faerie realm—and that had made her a cornerstone of local magician politics. It had probably gotten her killed.

I’d never fill those shoes. Despite my dedication to academic achievement, I failed at the most basic magic lesson. The bastards who killed Grandma were going to get away with it because I couldn’t light a damn candle. Constant anxiety compressed my chest, squeezing the air from my lungs, and each failed lesson with Beatrice added more weight.

It’s getting late, Bea, I said. We’ll try again tomorrow. I’m getting a headache.

A headache? That’s good, maybe it’s working, she said. I snorted in disbelief, and she scowled. You’ll never do it if you keep doubting yourself.

I know. I’m just tired. Tired, discouraged and questioning my very sanity because a willow wisp was standing in my kitchen, trying to teach me the basics of spellcasting and witchcraft. Maybe I’d experienced a psychotic break from the grief, and my psyche had created this alternate reality as a coping mechanism. It was a sensible explanation, and until recently I’d been a sensible young woman.

You need to work harder, Beatrice said. Practice more often. What if something happened and you couldn’t defend yourself?

Like what? My stomach twisted at her grave expression. What could happen?

Beatrice squirmed and shrugged. Things. You never know. It’s always best to be prepared. But we’ll pick up again tomorrow night. Sleep well! Beatrice smiled brightly and vanished in a puff of green faerie dust. As an earth faerie, she shed bits of crumbled leaves and dirt when she used her magic, and a ring formed in the spot she’d just vacated.

Things, huh? That didn’t bode well. Images of all the nightmares that go bump in the night filled my head as I cleaned, but I decided not to dwell on it.

With a sigh I opened the diary placed a safe distance away from the intended fire zone and smoothed its worn pages. I inherited my grandmother’s ritual tools and an extensive collection of diaries. Her loss was fresh enough that reading her thoughts felt like an invasion of her privacy, and my shoulders were pinched with worry that I was about to be scolded for being nosy. In this volume she had been a 14-year-old girl, and daydreams about cute boys were recorded in her precise penmanship alongside spells that were three times as difficult as the one I’d attempted.

A Spell to Ease the Ache of a Broken Heart, by Maureen O’Driscoll.

The corners of my mouth twitched as my fingers traced the faded ink. Where was this when I needed it two years ago? I muttered. Teenage heartbreak felt like the end of the world, but it had nothing on watching your marriage implode. I was still prone to nightmares where I screamed all the things I’d left unsaid at Daniel while he ignored me as though I was mute and invisible. I’d wake up drained and empty, as emotionally spent as if I’d spent an hour crying to my therapist. I wondered if Grandma had cast any spells to cope with the pain of losing my grandfather, who had died of lung cancer shortly before I was born. They looked madly in love in all of our family photos—but then again, so had Daniel and I, right up to the end.

We’ll try that one another day. I closed the diary and headed upstairs to return it to its spot in the chest o’ magic hidden in the back of my closet.

It was late past eleven. The fall semester wouldn’t start for another month yet, so I didn’t have papers to grade—or write for that matter—or lessons to plan. Another year of grad school left to get my Master’s, which had been more than enough to keep me busy before adding magic lessons to my plate. I closed up the house as I prepared for bed. I shut the windows and locked them—Oak Glen is a college town and not prone to crimes bigger than bicycle theft, but I’m a city girl from Chicago and open windows make me nervous. I don’t just have locks on my doors, I have multiple ones.

It was a hot, humid August night, and the A/C unit in my bedroom had been running for the past few hours. I opened the door and stepped through a wall of cool, crisp air and sighed in relief. I shed my jeans, T-shirt and bra and changed into light cotton pajamas—a cute tank top and shorts patterned with tiny yellow daisies. I abandoned the air-conditioned comfort for the mugginess of the bathroom down the hall, and I braided my black hair into two braids like goth Pippi Longstocking. Dark circles had formed under my eyes—spellwork practice didn’t seem to be agreeing with me. Great. At least I hadn’t turned bright green yet and started accusing farm girls of stealing shoes.

I brushed my teeth then headed downstairs. The kitchen was stuffy and dark with only the glow from the my googly-eyed frog nightlight next to the sink to see by. I grabbed a glass tumbler and savored the momentary bliss of the arctic blast from the freezer as I filled it with ice cubes. I crossed to the sink and filled the glass with tap water, but when I raised it to my lips a red light struck the tumbler’s faceted bottom and red points dotted the walls. What the hell?

The kitchen window exploded inward and I screamed as something zipped past my ear. I dropped the glass and it shattered in the sink, adding to the glass from the window.

I stumbled and banged into the counter behind me. A small metal dart was stuck into the cabinet door beside my head, inches away from my nose. Something huge and angry crashed into my kitchen door before I could examine the dart. The door shuddered as though a rhinoceros had barreled into it, and I yelped and bolted for the front door. When I neared that door it rattled nearly off its hinges, and I turned and ran up the stairs like an idiot in a horror movie. Glass broke and wood splintered behind me as a boom shook the house. A sharp, fast pain burned the bare skin of my arm, but I didn’t stop and look. I slammed my bedroom door and locked it. For extra protection I grabbed the edge of my dresser and dragged it in front of the door. It wouldn’t hold for long, but hopefully it would buy me enough time to escape.

Time, I blurted. I needed time. I reached for the silver tray of wristwatches atop the dresser and grabbed a handful. I slipped my 80s plastic watch ring on my index finger as I hurried to my grandmother’s dressing mirror in the corner of the room. In theory, mirrors could open a portal to Faerie, but I’d never done it. I accidentally conjured an image of the realm once—which was how I met Beatrice—but I hadn’t tried it since. The principle was simple enough. I needed time, which I now had a handful of, and blood, which I also had as I noticed the cut across my left arm. Blood trickled from it in a thin, steady stream—it would be enough. I transferred my watches to my left hand and smeared blood over my palm with my right. I pressed my bloody palm against the glass and a ripple spread outward across the surface. Energy zinged up my arm, and for the first glorious time I realized that was it! Magic. Real, actual magic, and I was doing it.

My joy was cut short as a terrific crash thudded against my bedroom door. An anemic glow formed in the glass, but it wasn’t enough. I needed a spell to finish the process, but I didn’t know the words.

I need to get into Faerie. Somewhere safe. Now!

The glow brightened and solidified into a green and gold landscape, and I jumped through the portal just as the door behind me crashed open. Wind and heat blasted me as I landed in a patch of tall grass. I looked up at the portal. Could I close it? I didn’t want whoever was chasing me to follow me here, but before I could figure out what to do a voice yelled, Look out!

I turned and was bowled off my feet, and as the ground rushed up to meet me someone turned out the lights. Pain erupted from every nerve in my body, but the worst was concentrated in the throbbing dance beat inside my skull. Ringing filled my ears and I tasted blood in my mouth.

Are you okay? The man’s voice was fuzzy and distant.

She’s probably just another addle-brained alchemist looking to gather herbs. A different speaker disparaged me from somewhere to my right. It never occurs to them that it’s dangerous to trespass in another clan’s land.

I breathed deep and inhaled the copper tang of fresh blood mixed with an undercurrent of dry summer prairie grass. My tailbone was bruised from landing hard on my butt after I’d fallen through the mirror—gravity was a cruel mistress—but the rest of my injuries occurred when I’d been tackled by a freight train covered in knives.

Miss, are you okay? the first voice repeated.

I cautiously opened my eyes. Scattered black dots expanded and contracted at the edges of my vision in time to the pulse of my headache, and for a moment I thought a lion stood over me—all golden mane and amber eyes. Maybe I’d ended up in Oz or Narnia instead of Faerie.

Shit. The word slurred like I’d had one too many margaritas.

She lost a lot of blood before you healed her, he said.

Blinking the world into focus, I stared up at him as his face hovered above mine. His eyes weren’t quite amber, but instead were an extreme hazel that had more gold than green. His tan brow creased with concern and he raked a hand through his short blond hair.

You have real pretty eyes, I blurted.

The stranger chuckled. I think you have a slight concussion.

Like I said. Addle-brained.

I glanced at the second speaker and gasped. He was a faerie of some sort, but not of my aunt’s clan. Black eyes glared from a thin, angular face with storm-cloud gray skin. His hair stuck out at all angles, and the spikes of black, white and gray added to his jagged appearance. He wore a tattered, wildly colored tunic and plain breeches, and strips of fabric from his sleeves fluttered in the breeze.

I’m Jeremiah, Mr. Not-a-lion said. Can you sit up?

Maybe. I’m Riley. This time I managed not to sound like a drunk teenager, though my head continued to pound like my skull was hosting an epic drum solo.

Jeremiah eased me into a sitting position. He was shirtless and possessed the most leanly muscled chest I’d ever laid eyes on. I wanted to touch his abs just to be sure I wasn’t hallucinating them. He was human and not a faerie, so what was he doing here? Was he a mixed blood like me? And did he get the number of the truck that ran me over?

Several bleeding cuts gashed my arms and legs. My pajama tank top was stained with blood, dirt and grass. My movement provoked the shredded fabric to attempt escape and I raised my arms to hold my top in place before I flashed the strangers. A burning wildfire roared across my back, and it reminded me of the terrible sunburn I’d gotten one summer when I’d foolishly attempted to tan. Girls with complexions white as snow aren’t meant to be bronze goddesses, and this felt as though I’d laid out next to the sun.

Did I get hit by a car? I asked.

No. Jeremiah shook his head.

Did you shoot me? I shook from head to foot as my adrenaline faded, but I refused to descend into hysteria. I came from a family of star athletes, and our family motto was, There’s no crying in baseball. Tears were only acceptable when someone had celebratory champagne in their eyes.

Shoot you? No.

Well someone did, before I went through the mirror. I looked at my upper left arm. See?

He followed my gaze and examined the wound. It’s not a claw mark. It looks like a bullet graze.

Why would it be a claw mark? I asked. Faeries with claws? My crash-course in everything faerie hadn’t mentioned that. Did I just get my ass kicked by a Jabberwock?

Why would it be a bullet graze? the pointy faerie countered. Who are you? Why did you come here?

My name is Riley O’Driscoll. Men with guns broke into my house and shot at me. I escaped through the mirror in my bedroom. The situation was absurd enough to be inspired by Lewis Carroll. Maybe I had gone mad. Until recently I was a normal, sane second-year grad student and former fourth grade public school teacher. My idea of excitement was ordering pizza and watching a streaming action movie on a Friday night.

O’Driscoll? The faerie peered at me. Related to the Titania, Maureen O’Driscoll?

Former Titania. She’s my grandmother. Or was, I corrected. It still felt strange to refer to her in the past tense.

"Hmph. You have the