The Wizard of Morgan's Island
by Karen McCullough
* Unsold *

    Ilene smelled magic as she drove onto the bridge. It mixed with the salty tang of the ocean, reaching her even with the car’s windows closed and the air conditioning running full blast. She recognized the light, spicy, sandalwood scent of the air ward. Michael’s. That aroma evoked the same visceral reaction now that it had twelve years ago, making her pulse speed up and her stomach twist with longing. Stupid, stupid.

    She looked up through the windshield. Hazy, yellow-orange streaks of the warding floated above. Could his scrying system identify her or did it just alert him to the presence of someone with power? How would he react if he did know it was her? Throw her off the island, most likely, and tell her not to come back.

    She planned to stay only long enough to deliver her message and get the information the Council needed, anyway.

    A group of cyclists peddled ahead of her on the bridge, dragging her attention back to the road while she negotiated around them. The bikers, who all had packs hooked to their bikes and strapped on their backs, spread out across more than half of the two-lane width. They had to be sweltering in the August North Carolina heat, but they waved cheerfully as she passed them in the left lane.

    At the crest of the bridge she caught a glimpse of her destination.
She’d been told Michael Morgan’s home was the largest house on the island and sat on the only piece of high ground. The hulking Victorian-style mansion fit the bill on both counts. No light-colored paint or gingerbread trim softened its stolid proportions, harsh angles and weathered-dark cedar siding. The place would make a perfect setting for one of those old-fashioned Gothic romances she occasionally picked up in a used bookstore.

    Of course, no one but another wizard would see the colorful swirls of magic drifting around it.

    She lost sight of all but the top of the four-story tower as she headed down toward land. On the island enormous, twisted live oaks, bearded with Spanish Moss lined the road, interspersed with the occasional Palmetto palm. Modest, low houses stood well back from the pavement behind the trees.

    Seconds later a different wave of magic hit her.

    More accurately, it slammed into her Toyota as a gale-force wind, sending it veering off to the left. Fortunately her reflexes clicked in before her brain could recover from the shock.

    Ilene fought to keep the car on the road as turbulent air pushed it one way and then another in an erratic pattern. For some moments she could only clutch the steering wheel, fingers digging into the leather surface, and struggle to hold it steady. The tires lost traction and started to skid. She turned into it, allowing her to regain control just before she hit the nearest live oak. Her door scraped against a low branch as she swerved back onto the pavement. The force continued to batter at the car, however, pushing it to the left even as she fought to keep it in the right lane.

    This was some kind of welcome to the island. Maybe Michael did recognize her. This magic didn’t smell like his, but it had been twelve years…

    With hands locked tightly on the steering, she tried to get a feel for the power assaulting her, seeking a way to block it or turn it aside. She tried to gather her own power to answer, but discovered she didn’t dare pull enough of her concentration away from controlling the car.

    Dark-green streaks of magic threaded the masses of air pushing her Toyota around. She reached out toward it, searching for a place where she could cut if off or block it. It battered her from all directions, too many to barricade against easily.

    For a moment the force waned enough to let her gather her energy to counter it, but then another blast hit, breaking her concentration again. The car veered into the other lane and began to fishtail.

    Someone really didn't want her on the island. She did a one-eighty, ending up facing in the other direction, back toward the inlet and the bridge. Seconds later, the span loomed ahead. The pack of cyclists was just rolling off it, coming toward her, spread out across the road.

    A driveway ahead offered a place to turn around, but as she braked to swing into it, another blast of force jolted the car, and the tires lost traction again. The Toyota began to slide along the pavement at an angle. Panic sucked all the air from her lungs when she realized the cyclists were dead ahead.

    Ilene glanced around wildly, fighting to stay calm. She had only an instant to make a choice.

    She swung the wheel to right. It took an agonizing moment before the tires gripped and held. The Toyota jounced off the road, across a shallow ditch.

    She braked as hard as she dared, leaning into the steering. A sharper turn and she might just get past the huge live oak looming too close ahead.

    “Oh, damn, damn, damn. God help me,” she muttered as the car headed for the tree. She stood on the brake, and rolled the wheel as far as it would go to the right. Not enough room.

    The next few minutes blurred. A jarring thud accompanied a series of bangs and scrapes as the car’s front left corner hit the tree. Ilene snapped against the seat belt. The air bag smacked her in the face. Metal groaned as it bent and shrieked as it scraped other pieces. Parts crunched and banged against each other. Glass and plastic shattered, spraying shards that clattered to the ground.

    And then it was quiet. Very, very quiet. Too shocked to move, she lay against the wheel and the deflating air bag. Her heart pounded furiously, but she couldn’t seem to draw any oxygen into her tight chest. It took a few panicky moments to fill her lungs again.

    Ilene lifted her head gingerly. That seemed to work, so she tried fingers and toes. All wiggled on demand, although the effort brought a sharp pain in her ribs. She hoped they were just bruised and not cracked or broken. An experimental deep breath made her gasp and hold herself very still against the pain.

    Noises outside the car distracted her. A group of helmeted cyclists tugged at the driver's side door. The crumpled front must have messed up the frame, though. They couldn't get it to budge.

    Someone yanked open the passenger side door and leaned in. Ilene twisted her head to look at the man. Not one of the cyclists. He wore a short-sleeved blue work shirt and no helmet. Forcing her neck to bend a bit more, she met the gaze of the most complex and beautiful eyes she'd ever seen. Thready spokes of blue, in shades varying from deep navy to almost silver, wove together and meshed as they radiated from dark pupils. Another sort of shock and pain jolted through her. They were familiar eyes, though it had been twelve years since she'd last seen them. "Michael!" It came out as half gasp, half exclamation.

    "Are you all right?" he asked. His voice rasped along her nerves, just the way it used to when she was fifteen and he seventeen. There was a harder edge there now.

    "I think so."

    "Can you move your legs?" he asked.

    "Yes." She shifted her left leg. “Damn, it hurts. Not broken, though.”

    One of the cyclists interrupted. "I'm a paramedic. Let me check her out. Has anyone called 911?”

    "Don't bother," Michael said while yielding his place on the passenger seat to the cyclist. "It'll take the ambulance an hour or so to get here. If we can move her, I'll take her to the hospital. I'll call someone to take care of the car also."

    The paramedic asked her a bunch of questions and ran his hands over her legs and arms, along her neck and down her sides. Ilene felt strange, almost distant from the scene, reluctant to move and indifferent to everything but the fact that Michael was there.

    His rapid arrival surprised and worried her. He must have been responsible for the wind that caused the accident. She'd known he wouldn't be happy to have her on the island. But he'd responded to her arrival even faster than she'd anticipated. More violently as well. Why was he being helpful now? Because there were witnesses?

    The paramedic finished looking her over and checking for damage. "I don't think anything's broken. Do you want to try to get out?"

    Ilene nodded, but her painful ribs made it difficult to slide across the seat. The young cyclist assisted her until she could swing her legs down to the ground.

    Michael stood nearby as she tried to stand.

    "You sure know how to make a girl feel welcome," she told him, though the effect was ruined when she gulped on the last word. Her stomach lurched.

    Darkness gathered at the periphery of her vision, expanding rapidly.
Arms went around her shoulders and hips. Before the darkness claimed her completely, she felt herself being lifted and pressed against a masculine chest.