Hidden Gifts

Prologue Santa Fe, New Mexico, twenty-one years from now…. Genoveva Castillo set her phone down on the bulky carved desk that dominated the study, a small smile touching her mouth. “She is on her way.” Like the cat that swallowed the canary. In that moment, watching the quiet triumph on Genoveva’s face, Rafael Castillo thought he’d never hated his mother as much as he did right then. However, he knew better than to betray anything of what he felt; Genoveva was the prima, or head witch of their clan, and her magical gifts only enhanced an already powerful gift of observation. The two of them had shared an uneasy détente for more than fifteen years now, ever since he was old enough to truly begun to understand what this horrible bargain entailed for him. No chance to choose the woman of his heart, no opportunity to make his life his own, and all because his grandmother had made a deal with the prima of the McAllister clan in Arizona to provide some desperately needed magical help when they needed it most. Rafe couldn’t even blame Angela McAllister all that much; she’d been caught in what must have felt like a trap she couldn’t escape, fighting a dark warlock whose powers had seemed invincible. This terrible arrangement hadn’t even been her idea, but had sprung from some fancy of his grandmother’s. Voice as level as he could make it, he said, “I can’t believe you’re actually going through with this.” Genoveva’s smile faded. Perfectly coiffed head held high, she turned away from him and went to the window of her study, twitching the heavy tapestry drapes aside so she could gaze out at the grounds of the property. This late in October, most of the leaves had fallen from the sycamores, but the cottonwoods were gamely hanging on, bright gold against the sullen sky. “Why shouldn’t you believe it? We’ve been planning this for the past twenty-one years. You’ve had plenty of time to get used to the reality of Miranda coming here.” That was a load of crap. Rafe knew he would never get used to the idea of an arranged marriage, of having someone he’d never met foisted upon him. And Genoveva actually thought he was supposed to be happy about all this? “Keep telling yourself what you want to believe, Mother.” Her lips thinned. Back in happier times, he’d called her “Mom.” But as the distance between them grew, he’d slipped into using the much more formal epithet. Rafe could tell that Genoveva didn’t like it, because she wanted to pretend that everything was fine between them, that they were a model family and an example for the rest of the clan. There was a joke. His older sisters Louisa and Malena had managed to make their escape already, had lives and families of their own, and could safely distance themselves from their mother. Cat, his little sister, hadn’t been so lucky, even though more than once Rafe had encouraged her to date on the down-low, to maybe try seeing civilians in her quest for the man of her dreams. But as free-spirited as his younger sister could be in some ways, she didn’t have quite the strength to break away from their domineering mother. He couldn’t really blame her; he knew the only reason he had as much independence as he’d been able to enjoy in his adult life was that his future had already been sewn up neatly — at least, in Genoveva’s eyes. “There is no need to sulk,” she said, her voice cold. “You would think we were marrying you to a gargoyle.” Miranda McAllister was anything but a gargoyle. Rafe knew that for a fact, because he’d seen the pictures Angela McAllister, her mother, had sent Genoveva. And that wasn’t the point. What difference did it make how beautiful Miranda was if he didn’t get any say in the matter? As his jaw clenched and he tried to think of the best way to reply, his mother continued. “It is not as if I had any say, either,” she said. “The prima-in-waiting must go with the consort that God decrees for her.” “False equivalencies,” he shot back. “No one arranged that bond. It just happened. And at least you knew Dad.” “Not well,” she replied, although her tone wasn’t quite as forthright as it had been a moment earlier, as if she knew she was on shaky ground here. True, Rafe’s father Eduardo had grown up in Belen, south of Albuquerque, and so hadn’t spent a lot of time with the Santa Fe branch of their witch clan, but at least he had met Genoveva a handful of times before they shared the fateful kiss that bound them together forever. “But he wasn’t a goddamn stranger.” “Language, Rafael.” Genoveva turned her back on the window and faced him, arms crossed. “You have had plenty of time to reconcile yourself to this marriage. Stop acting like a child and accept your responsibility to your clan.” “Responsibility” and “clan” were two words Rafe would be happy never to hear again. “And what if I don’t?” This time true anger, rather than mere irritation, flashed in his mother’s dark eyes. Her elegant, patrician features hard with displeasure, she said, “You will go against the will of your grandmother, her vision that this was the match fate had decreed for you?” “Her words to you,” Rafe shot back. “It would have been nice if she could have specifically mentioned why it was so important that I marry Miranda McAllister. Vague mentions of possible futures don’t really do it for me.” “Things happened quickly. I did not have much time to speak to her before she went with the McAllister prima and her Wilcox consort to confront the dark warlock in California.” Genoveva drew herself up; she was not a short woman, but she still had to work to look directly into her son’s eyes. “But your grandmother’s sight was never wrong, Rafael. She might not have had enough time to tell me the particulars, but she knew that Miranda McAllister must come here to Santa Fe, and I would never question her judgment. ” “Well, that’s convenient,” Rafe remarked. He was tired of this, tired of the whole thing. The clock on the wall told him he had only a few hours of freedom left. No, the wedding wouldn’t take place the second Miranda McAllister stepped off the train, but as soon as she set foot in Santa Fe, he would be as bound to her as if he’d already put a ring on her finger. He ran a hand through his hair, then said, “Text me when she gets to the house.” “Rafael — ” He had no desire to stay and have his mother browbeat him any further. Without responding, he turned and left the study, and slammed the door behind him. A childish gesture, he knew, but the only thing he could think of to show how angry he was without actually becoming violent. In a few hours, his life would be taken away forever. And there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.