Deep Magic

Prologue

Prologue

Lucinda Santiago sat huddled on an uncomfortable antique chair in a corner of her bedroom. The day outside the sheer curtains that framed the window was dark, dank, and gray. A little early for Southern California’s stereotypical June gloom of clouds and low fog, since it was only the start of May, but the weather matched her mood perfectly.

No, actually, if it was going to accurately reflect her mental state, then rain should be pouring down, the skies torn apart by thunder and lightning. This part of California didn’t get that kind of weather very often, though.

Muffled voices drifted up to her from downstairs, although Lucinda couldn’t make out whose they were. Joaquin Escobar must be one of them; the dark warlock from Central America never seemed to leave the house, forced everyone to come and pay him court here in the home that had once belonged to Lucinda’s parents, the Santiago clan’s prima and her consort…before Joaquin murdered them.

Not for the first time, Lucinda wondered why no one in her clan had tried to fight Joaquin, hadn’t tried to get some kind of vengeance for their dead prima and for Simón Santiago, who had been the true head of the clan for as long as Lucinda could remember. True, the magic of her fellow clan members was useless against a warlock like Joaquin, since he was capable of nullifying the powers of anyone who got within ten feet of him, but a bullet could travel a lot farther than ten feet. Or did Joaquin Escobar’s strange and terrible roster of talents include protection against civilian — nonmagical — weapons as well?

Lucinda didn’t know. She also didn’t know why she was even still alive. Unlike her cousin Marisol, who had become prima of the Santiago clan with the death of her Aunt Beatriz, Lucinda had no real value to Joaquin Escobar. She supposed she should be glad that the only fate she’d suffered so far was to be confined to her room. Marisol was a glassy-eyed shell of her former self, a pretty doll who appeared to exist only to do Joaquin’s bidding.

This behavior frightened Lucinda more than almost anything else, because she’d seen it before. She’d seen it in herself years ago, back when Matías Escobar decided to make her his toy in an attempt to gain true power in the Santiago clan, rather than being forever dismissed as someone adopted into the witch family only because Simón Santiago had needed the healing gifts Matías’ mother possessed. Lucinda and her father had had their differences, but she could only thank him and bless him for being strong enough to expel Matías from the clan, thus freeing her from his influence.

But Joaquin wasn’t interested in Lucinda. Not in that way, at any rate. True, he had seemed to be in a very good mood these past few days, although she wasn’t sure precisely why. One time when Marisol brought up a dinner tray for Lucinda, Joaquin had come along for some reason, stood off to one side as the prima handed the tray over to their captive. After Marisol was done with her task, Joaquin had bent down and pressed his lips against her neck, had put his hands over her stomach in a gesture both possessive and significant. The new prima might look as slender as ever, but Joaquin seemed to be making it very clear that she already carried his child.

That little scene had effectively killed what scant appetite Lucinda possessed, but she’d made herself eat anyway. She needed to stay strong, stay focused. So far she hadn’t been given a single opportunity to escape, but surely that state of affairs couldn’t last forever. If nothing else, wouldn’t the neighbors be wondering what had happened to her, to her parents? True, Simón had never been what you could call social, especially with civilian neighbors on every side in this upscale neighborhood, but he had liked to go out and tend his roses, had been seen leaving the property in his big black Mercedes S-Class from time to time.

Then again, if Joaquin had somehow managed to subjugate every member of the Santiago clan, then Lucinda guessed keeping a few nonmagical neighbors out of his business probably wouldn’t be all that difficult.

It had been a shock to learn who Joaquin really was, that Matías was his son. In a way, it made sense; they were both the kind of monster who didn’t care that they were using their magical gifts for the very worst purposes. She could only be relieved that at least Matías was locked up for life in a maximum-security prison somewhere in Arizona, his talents forever stripped from him by Angela McAllister and Connor Wilcox. If Joaquin had come here to Southern California to save his son, he was too late. No power on earth could restore the gifts the prima and the primus had taken from Matías. Besides, Joaquin hadn’t left the house since he’d returned here, a blank-faced Marisol in tow. When he’d disappeared right after murdering Lucinda’s parents…was it only a week and a half ago?…she’d thought about running — only to find every door and window locked against her. The minor talent every witch possessed when it came to opening locked doors couldn’t help her. Clearly, Joaquin had laid a powerful spell on the house to keep her captive within.

Why, she still didn’t know. Even though she wasn’t of much use — she possessed minor gifts when it came to predicting and controlling the weather, which was why her cousin Marisol had been the prima-in-waiting instead of Lucinda, as the prima’s daughter — she could still be seen as a symbol to rally around, the only surviving child of the murdered prima and her consort.

Unfortunately, it didn’t seem as if any of her fellow Santiagos appeared to care. Lucinda wanted to hate them for being complicit in her captivity, but she knew in their own way, they were just as much prisoners as she was.

Footsteps on the stairs. Although the house had been well-maintained, it was still now almost a hundred years old, since it had been built in the 1920s, back when silent film stars and East Coast tycoons constructed lavish mansions in Pasadena’s Linda Vista neighborhood. Because of the house’s age, the stairs creaked, which Lucinda now counted as a good thing. She’d hated those stairs when she was younger and wanted to sneak out to be with her friends, but at least now she always knew when someone was coming.

The clock on her nightstand told her it was a little past three-thirty. She’d had lunch several hours ago, and it was far too early for Marisol to be delivering her dinner. Besides, the footsteps on the stairs sounded heavier than her cousin’s. Joaquin? It had to be, although Lucinda couldn’t think what he might want. He’d spoken very little to her after he’d taken command of this house, of the clan. She’d gotten the distinct impression that he thought interacting with her was a waste of his time.

The footsteps paused just outside her door. Lucinda got up from the chair where she’d been sitting, not because she really knew what she intended to do, but because she refused to let Joaquin see how frightened she was of him. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t hurt her so far. She knew he could hurt her, could kill her, if he decided there was no real reason to keep her alive.

And if she was going to meet her fate at the hands of this dark warlock, then she was going to do it standing on her own two feet, like the daughter of the Santiagos that she was.

The knob turned. The door swung slowly inward. A man stepped into the room.

Not Joaquin, although she knew this man’s face immediately. Younger, and handsome, with sharp-drawn features and piercing black eyes. Lucinda froze where she was, blood like ice in her veins.

It couldn’t be….

“Hello, Lucinda,” said Matías Escobar. “Miss me?”