Free Visions of Skyfire by Regan Hastings

that moment Elena totally understood.
    She was alone with someone who could set her on fire at his whim and she had no defense. But she was still safer than her friend. This man knew that Elena was no threat to him. If, on the other hand, he caught up to Teresa, there was no telling what he would do to her. So it was up to Elena to keep that from happening. She wasn’t a witch. She wasn’t in trouble with the MPs or the Bureau of Witchcraft. But she had the distinct feeling that this man had nothing to do with the feds.
    He was clearly magical himself, so whatever his reason for looking for Teresa, it wasn’t to lock her away in prison. There was something else going on here. Elena wondered if Teresa even knew that she had more to worry about than the federal agents assigned to track her down.
    Once she got out of this, Elena promised herself, she’d find a way to warn Teresa about the newest danger. And she would get out of this. After all, she was a doctor, not a witch. This guy had no reason to hurt her. Neither did the feds. She was no threat to anyone. So all she had to do, she assured herself silently, was to be cooperative—within reason—and then he’d go away.
    Please, God, let him go away.
    Over the snap and hiss of the fire Elena whispered, “Who are you?”
    Before answering, he touched her desk once more and the flames instantly died, snapping out as if they’d never been. She could almost have convinced herself she’d imagined everything—but for the charred pieces of paper and the curled edges of the manila folders. She swallowed hard and tried to find the courage she would need to stand against a man like this. And as that thought whispered through her mind, he turned his head and gave her that cold, empty smile again. As if he knew exactly what she was thinking—and found it amusing.
    “Who am I?” he repeated, his voice a deep rumble. “Interesting question. One I’ve asked myself many times and I’ve yet to find the answer.”
    Great. Riddles.
    “Seems simple enough to me,” Elena said, sidling closer to the desk. If she could just tip the receiver slightly off its cradle and hit 911, she could get help. Please, God —she needed help. “You do have a name, don’t you?”
    “Don’t all beings have names … Elena?”
    Her heart kicked into a gallop. Hearing her own name on his lips was intimate. Terrifying. “So what’s yours?”
    “Why do you want to know, I wonder.” He followed her slight movement across the room. “Could you be stalling? Trying to buy your friend time?”
    “Friend?” She glanced around, anywhere but into his eyes. She quickly noted the everyday ordinariness of her clinic. The coloring books scattered across a child-sized table. The baby bottle someone had left behind. The candy-coated air, now smeared with the lingering traces of burned paper.
    “Teresa Santiago,” he said and all trace of amusement was gone from his features. “Where is she, Elena?”
    She stopped. Only a foot or two from the desk and she stopped dead, sensing the danger suddenly erupting between her and the man with the pale storm-colored eyes. She felt the coiled tension vibrating off him and shared it. Her mouth was dry, her palms were damp and panic was scraping at her throat. Still, she found the courage to look right at him and lie. “I don’t know.”
    He sighed and clucked his tongue at her. “You’re lying.”
    “No.” She shook her head for emphasis and prayed he would believe her. “I haven’t seen Teresa in—”
    “Hours?” He finished for her, taking a step closer. “Minutes?”
    “No. Weeks.” She told the lie and lifted her chin as if to convince both of them that she was giving him nothing but the truth. “She’s a witch, you know—”
    “Yes,” he said softly. “I know.”
    “Well, when I found out what she was, I tried to turn her in, but she, um —” Elena took another half step toward the desk, hoping he would put her movement down to nervous