by Deeks, B. C.
“Thanks, Dr. Egan,” said the old man, giving the dog gentle strokes from neck to tail. “I’m glad you were here.” This was clearly more than a working dog to him. “When’s Kai due back with the new missus?”
“Sometime next week,” Marcus replied. Kai Hunter, the regular town vet, was Marcus’s trusted friend. Together, they’d brought a coven of rogue witches to justice the November before. Ninety-nine more years to go on their sentence encased in a rock prison. The magic to conjure one impressed the hell out of him, but to spend even a day—Marcus shuddered.
He gave the dog a final pat on the rump thinking this animal probably sensed his magic but wouldn’t be telling anyone. Marcus lifted the border collie down from the examination table and watched the owner and his furry friend head down the hall towards the front desk.
This wasn’t the first time Marcus had taken over Kai’s clinic for him, but it was the first time Marcus had needed it as his cover. The report in the local Bandit Creek Gazette mentioned the mortal community was fearful after the sudden and violent death of local couple. That didn’t touch the reaction in his magical world when news of the murder reached The Otherland. Devlin Gwynn and Eavan Kemena, known throughout The Otherland as ‘The Lost Guardians’, had finally turned up in Bandit Creek. The governing Witches Council didn’t waste any time sending him through the portal to find out what the demons damn was going on.
Council was facing magical mayhem if they didn’t act decisively this time. They had badly mishandled the situation at the time and many said that was the start of the growing tensions within Council. He’d been young when it all happened but he’d heard the whispers behind closed doors.
Marcus straightened and headed out of the examination room. If he didn’t have any more patients, it was time to get back to his real purpose. As he headed down the hall, the hair on the back of his neck suddenly stood on end. Magic slid over his body like a warm blanket. He slowed his steps. He could see the rancher heading out the main door showing no awareness of the sudden thickness in the air. Was he imagining the presence of magic?
Marcus drew his power into a protection shield and pushed a sensing spell towards the outer reception area. He recognized the signature of the vet technician and receptionist, Cora West. Cora hovered over him like a cat in heat. She insisted on ‘helping the new guy learn the ropes’. He wished she wouldn’t. It was making it annoyingly difficult for him to pursue his investigation.
His spell confirmed the presence of magic near the counter but it didn’t read like a threat. Still he had to make sure Cora wasn’t caught in magical crossfire. He schooled his face into a neutral mask and stepped into the outer office. Cora had her back to him.
The client was a woman with a fair complexion and a slight build—at least a foot shorter than his six foot two. She wore a plaid shirt and a black baseball cap, with her long blond braid pulled through the back.
A new face in town, he thought, as he considered the woman. She didn’t look like she posed an immediate threat. He relaxed enough to lean back against the wall. Neither of the women noticed his presence. He heard her asking Cora, “Do you know anyone he’s done work for?”
That’s odd, thought Marcus. Who asks for references for a vet? It’s not like she had a lot to choose from in Bandit Creek.
Cora’s voice drifted to him as a mumble. The other woman’s words were soft but clearer.
“And she was happy with his work?”
He could see that Cora was nodding affirmative as she reached for a pad of paper and scribbled something on it before handing the note across the desk.
The second woman smiled her appreciation. “It’s so hard to find a good handyman. I’m glad you could recommend this Shipley guy, Cora.”
George Shipley had arrived in town about the same time Marcus had last November. A quiet man, who he’d heard would only work for cash. Depending on who you listened to in town, the handyman was an international jewel thief hiding from the law, a sad amnesiac who had no memory of his past, or a nasty drug smuggler escaping a Mexican war lord.
Bandit Creek only had about 3000 residents so Marcus knew most of the key players. He had a nodding acquaintance with the Mayor and his wife, Sheriff Morgan and Deputy Medicine Crow, the bank manager and the odd looking bartender at the Powder Horn Saloon, and, of course, the town drunk, Jack. He didn’t recognize this woman or the dog. He shrugged. The dog looked healthy so maybe they hadn’t been in before.
He debated if he should fade into the background. In his line of work, his talent for making even another witch’s eye look past him without registering his presence was useful. He felt another power surge.
“What the—
The woman wasn't the magic source. And the beast already knew Marcus was there. Fierce, dark eyes locked on him, not in a friendly, or mortal, way. What the hell is a familiar doing here? Familiars couldn’t be summoned. They appeared only when gifted by a more powerful spirit in times of great danger. There hadn’t been such a creature around The Otherland for centuries. So who sent this one, he wondered. And why?
Pushing away from the wall, Marcus wandered over to the reception desk. By habit, he moved with quiet steps, yet the young woman seemed to sense his approach and turned in his direction. She pulled the cap from her head, pushed loose wisps of hair from her forehead, and looked up at him.
His breath stopped in his throat and his mouth watered. The little nymph was more than the usual pretty combination of golden blond hair and flawless fair skin. Her electric blue eyes, even smudged with fatigue, jolted his gut in a way he hadn’t felt since his teens, when his magical energy was working overtime along with his hormones.
He smiled and managed to keep his stance casual as he kept one eye on the familiar and one on the woman. She seemed startled for a second but then returned his smile with a brilliant one of her own. The familiar didn’t. He bared his teeth and growled.
“I mean you no harm.” He didn’t want the familiar to blow his cover so he stood completely still as he spoke to it directly.
To the woman he said, “Is he always afraid of strangers?”
The familiar rumbled again as if insulted.
“Only you as far as I know,” she replied. Her voice, a rich alto, wrapped around him like a siren’s song. “He was fine with me, and the sheriff, yesterday.”
He blinked trying to regain some control of his brain. “What’s his name?” He eased his hand, very slowly, towards the familiar murmuring reassurances that only the magical beast would understand.
“I don’t know really. I found him last night with no collar.” She shrugged and a light flush colored her cheeks. “I’ve been calling him Busby. You know, after the big furry hats the guards at Buckingham Palace wear. When I first saw him on my porch, that’s what he reminded me of.”
That answers one question, he thought. He’s here to protect this woman. But does she know that? With his hand dangerously close to the familiar’s mouth, he let the beast scent the strength of his power. Warlocks were a level above most magical creatures, having been bred for generations as warriors. Of course, that didn’t mean the familiar wasn’t as strong, or even stronger. No one knew how familiars travelled from witch to witch and many assumed they were from the spirit realm.
Finally, the creature eased back on his haunches.
“Busby’s giving me a reprieve.” He very slowly withdrew his hand. To the familiar he said, “Giving me a chance, aren’t you, Busby. But you let me know who’s got the teeth when it comes to this woman.” He stepped back.
“That’s why I’m here. I thought you could help me find Busby’s owner. He doesn’t have a tag or tattoo.”
Without being asked, Cora handed him the microchip scanner from behind the counter.
He took it knowing there wouldn’t be a microchip but he might as well keep up the pretense and see where things went. He eased into a squat beside the beast as he very carefully ran the scanner over his coat. The animal angled his head to
watch but sat patiently.
When the scanner didn’t flash a number, he looked up at the woman and confirmed, “No sign of a chip.”
He would swear she was genuinely concerned. She furrowed her brow and stroked the familiar’s back. “I can’t believe no one owns him. He’s obviously well cared for.”
Still confused, he played along. “Sometimes country folk don’t bother with chips or even tags.”
As he was about to stand, he noticed an oversized silver ring on her hand. It seemed too heavy to belong on her small hand. He thumbed the snake ring his father had given to him when he came into his magic. Silver rings were frequently used by witches to store and transfer magical power.
“That’s an unusual ring you’re wearing there,” he said. “It looks like a gryphon.”
She looked at her finger and quickly brought her other hand over it. Almost as if she felt a need to protect it. Strange.
“They were my parents’ wedding rings.” She looked puzzled as she fidgeted with the ring. “It’s two rings, really. An eagle and a lion.”
“Oh,” he said, thinking fast. He knew from his investigation those were the animal symbols of the two murdered witches. A coincidence? Odd wedding rings for mortals to choose. Who the hell was this woman? He pushed himself slowly to his feet, taking the time to get his thoughts under control.
“By the way, I should introduce myself,” he said. “I’m Marcus Egan. Covering for Dr. Hunter this month.”
She held out her hand to him as courtesy dictated, and replied, “Avalon Gwynn.” Her smile bewitched him. “Call me Avy. Everyone does.”
Marcus hoped his jaw didn’t drop. What the—a daughter?
Guardian witches couldn’t breed with each other. It hadn’t been possible for over five hundred years. It was the price they paid for their power over The Otherland. At the end of the Coven War, the five governing families of the Witches Council were each given enhanced, but incompatible magic. Only compatible magic can form new life.
Marcus’s mind raced. Maybe Devlin and Eavan adopted a mortal child.
“Gwynn?” Marcus made sure to furrow his brow as if he was struggling to remember. “Any connection to the Old Gwynn Place up by the cemetery?”
Her face immediately clouded and he was afraid she’d just walk away. He’d better tune up his interrogation skills if he wanted to keep her talking. He had to be sure. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…” He fumbled to explain his lack of tact. He was trampling over her feelings like a damned cyclops. He tried again. “I’m new in town …”
She straightened her shoulders and gave him a small smile. “Yes, that Gwynn.” She didn’t seem to notice she’d dropped her hand to the familiar’s head.
“I’m sorry about your parents,” he said, still not believing it could be possible. He waited for her to correct him and give him some other explanation.
A tear slipped down her cheek, and she whispered, “Thank you.”
They looked at each other in awkward silence.
If the impossible had happened and she is their biological child, how much magic did she inherit from her parents? He noticed that her skin was outlined in a faint beige light. Her aura. It was so weak a lesser warlock would have missed it. He had at first.
He fought against the urge to give his head a shake in disbelief. The Gwynn’s had conceived a child. A hybrid. And hid her in plain sight. In Bandit Creek, Montana.
Chapter Three
Avy stepped out the door of the vet clinic and paused. “Well, Busby. I’m sure Dr. Egan will find your owner.”
He’d promised to call other clinics for her and meet her the next morning at Ma’s Kitchen to give her an update. She felt a flutter in the pit of her stomach. It wasn’t that she felt at all like dating right now. Maybe it was white coat syndrome or something, but just standing next to him seemed to make her feel better, to ease her grief. And his eyes. They were the strangest color she’d ever seen. Maybe Dr. Egan could be a friend. She really needed one right now. Someone to help her get through everything. To get through the funeral. The murder investigation. The terrible loss. Her breath hitched.
Busby leaned against her leg and gave a soft bark.
Avy smiled down at him. “Of course, you’re my friend too, Busby. You’re my best friend.”
Busby barked his agreement. Then stood to await her lead.
She sucked in a deep breath of the crisp mountain air and looked up at the endless cerulean blue of the sky. This was the one thing she missed about Bandit Creek. It was as if the air here was fresher, or maybe just easier to breathe.
She wrapped Busby’s leash around her hand, shifted the bag of free dog food the vet had given her to the other hip, and settled her purse more securely on her shoulder. “We’ve got lots to do. Where should we start?”
Busby grunted and hung the full length of his tongue out the side of his mouth and ran it from ear to ear.
Avy felt a stab of guilt. “Oh, right. Sorry, buckaroo. Just because my stomach is too upset to eat doesn’t mean you aren’t starved. How about we stop at Ma’s for a quick coffee while I give you a bowl of chow?”
She was counting on missing the Friday morning breakfast crowd but once there, that wasn’t the issue. The coffee took fifteen minutes but the hugs and chat took another forty-five. It was almost noon by the time they were back on the sidewalk.
“Now, let’s track down the mysterious Mr. Shipley to fix the porch.” The night before, visible signs of her parents’ death struggle had been a shock. In the full light of day this morning, it looked like a dragon battle had been fought on her front lawn. The sight made her physically sick.
A nudge from Busby got her on the move. She glanced at the small yellow piece of paper that Cora had given her and headed west along Walnut Street towards Murphy’s Boarding House where the handyman, Shipley, lived.
It took less than fifteen minutes for Avy to find George Shipley and arrange for him to do the house repairs. She backtracked along Walnut. She knew she should go over to Brubaker’s Funeral Home. She couldn’t be sure when her parents’ bodies would be released, but she should make arrangements. Tears pooled in her eyes. She pulled a tissue from her pocket and blotted them away.
She glanced at the sheriff’s office as she passed. She wanted answers he didn’t have yet. With nausea churning her stomach, she wasn’t ready to hear more details about their death. She decided to postpone the visit.
As she passed Ellis Park, a voice drifted towards her. She knew who it was even before she saw him stretched out on the park bench. It wasn't clear whether Jack, or JD as he was also called, was his real name since his drink of choice was Jack Daniels. He'd been a permanent fixture of Bandit Creek for longer than anyone could remember. Some of the old townsfolk said Jack had always been here, but obviously, that wasn’t true since the town was over a hundred years old. Decrepit as he appeared, he wasn’t that old.
From the time she was very young, Avy’s parents insisted that she treat Jack with respect because he was a shaman. They said he was a very wise man and hid the truth within his nonsense as a reward to anyone who was paying attention. As a child, Avy had a lot of trouble paying attention.
“Sorry Jack. I didn’t catch what you said.”
After a silent pause, she considered ignoring him but maybe he needed some help. She took a deep breath and walked over to the bench.
She looked down at him. He was buried under what had once been a colorful woven blanket but was now threadbare, faded and torn. A shabby cowboy hat shaded his face.
“Jack?” She tapped on the bench back as if it were a door. “Hey Jack.”
A wrinkled claw of a hand pushed the hat up to reveal a grizzled face framed with wiry gray hair braided down over his ears and disappearing under the blanket tucked up under his stubbled chin.
She thought she saw a spark of intelligence in his eyes. It was gone in an instant, unless it was never there. It could have been the morning sun.
“The
end before the beginning,” he said in a low growl. Then, he closed his eyes again with a long sigh, as if an arduous task was now complete.
She tapped on the bench again. “Not getting it Jack. Could you expand on that?”
He grunted in response. She frowned, not sure if he was actually saying anything or just snoring.
“Jack?” She walked around to the front of the bench and laid her hand on his shoulder. “Jack, it’s Avalon Gwynn. Was there something you wanted to tell me?”
This time the words emerging from his dry, chapped lips were crystal clear. “Coming together leads to the beginning.”
He then fell into a deeper sleep, or more likely passed out, and this time Avy couldn’t rouse him at all.
If the end leads back to the beginning, you’re going in circles, she thought. What the heck did he mean this time?
She closed her eyes and leaned on the back of the bench. “Not much help there, Jack,” she said.
She waited a few seconds and then squelched her impatience. She reached into her pocket and pulled out an energy bar she’d grabbed that morning. She tucked it under the edge of the blanket. “Don’t forget to eat, Jack.” She patted the blanket and continued on her way.
Her next stop was the town’s undertaker, Deloris Brubaker. As hers was the only pagan family in town, Avy didn't expect Deloris to be much help. While the Wicca funeral ritual had some similarities to Christian ceremonies, Avy was determined to respect her family’s religious beliefs as her parents were laid to rest no matter what the townspeople might think of her. Like all the kids in town, she remembered Mrs. Brubaker as a scary, spitfire of a woman with a rasping smoker’s voice. Seeing the world through adult eyes gave her a different view. An hour later, she’d completed the funeral arrangements and found Mrs. Brubaker to be kind and respectful as Avy explained the ritual. Together, they arranged for a funeral service that satisfied her own and the town’s sensitivities.
