“Sure of what, dear?” Sybil stood and crept up behind her.
“My Dof. The driver was my Dof.”
Sybil gasped, and her mother’s forehead crinkled. “Your true love,” she said.
“But I wasn’t sure, so I went to the hospital to see him not covered in blood.” She cleared her throat. “And it’s him. Definitely. I spent the night at the hospital. That’s where I’ve been.”
“You slept with a stranger!” Rue screeched.
“Mother! No, not like that. Shit, I slept on the floor. I just… he seemed so broken. His girlfriend is in a coma, and no one knows if she’s going to wake up. They’re new to Charleston, so he doesn’t have anyone. I was just trying to…” She brushed braids from her face. “I don’t know what the fuck I was doing there.” She melted into Rue’s now abandoned chair.
“Language, young lady.”
“Rue.” Drake put his hand on his wife’s arm and knelt in front of Cyan. “Did anything out of the ordinary happen when you were with him?”
“Like, magical? No.” She pointed at Sybil. “And it would be really messed up if destiny makes his girlfriend die just so I can be with my so-called true love.”
Sybil’s freckles twitched. “I don’t think that’s quite how it works, dear.”
“It better not.”
“I want to see him,” Rue growled.
“Mother, you are not busting into that hospital room.”
“I don’t have to. Sybil.” Rue waved toward the secret back room of Sea Books, and Sybil moved quickly.
“What’s his name?” Drake asked.
“Liam. He has a funny accent.”
Sybil came back with a small bowl and a mirror the size of her head—the Plainacher family scrying mirror.
Cyan stomped between Rue and her supplies. “What, you’re going to spy on him? What if he’s picking his nose?”
“Everyone picks their nose, dear,” Sybil said as she set the dark chrome mirror near the bookshop point of sales. She then hurried to make sure the front door was locked as Rue carried the small bowl around the store, picking sprigs of herb while whispering incantations in Gaelic.
Cyan stared into the black center of the mirror that reflected nothing unless a witch made it so—unless a witch directly requested to see a particular person. She pursed her lips at her father.
“She just wants to see him, little one.” He kissed her forehead.
“It feels so invasive.”
“It is, but so is your mama.”
Rue set the bowl of herbs before the scrying mirror. She rolled up the sleeves of her blue linen shirt and took a deep breath before waving her hands over the bowl. Her palms glowed a bright, clean white. “His name, Hypatia.”
When she didn’t speak, her dad nudged her in the back.
Cyan sighed. “Liam Cody.”
Rue whispered some more, eyes closed. Sybil stood behind her sister and put one hand on her shoulder, her own palm emitting a light pink glow. Then, they whispered together. Cyan recognized the words. Her extensive studies had taught her how to use a scrying mirror; she’d just never had the power to do so. There was the occasional muttering of Liam’s name amidst the incantations, and then, the mirror began to change. It shifted from depthless ebony into a haze of warm light and some movement. The image continued to clear until a tidy bedroom revealed itself… and Liam in nothing but a towel around his waist.
Cyan squeaked. “Mother! Turn it off!”
“Oh, my,” Rue said.
“Indeed,” Sybil agreed, moving closer to the mirror.
Cyan shoved between her family and the scrying mirror, her back to Liam’s semi-naked, incredibly attractive body. “He just got out of the shower.”
“What do you think?” Rue asked. “Runner or yoga?”
Together, the sisters agreed, “Runner.”
“Daddy, is he…” Cyan tilted her head back toward the mirror.
Drake dared a glance over his daughter’s shoulder. “Yes, he’s decent.”
Rue shoved Cyan out of the way, and both she and Sybil studied Liam as he walked slowly around his and Zoe’s apartment, wearing dark jeans and a black button-down. Cyan tried not to watch this massive invasion of Liam’s privacy, but she caught a few glimpses of the condo the couple was trying to make feel like home with pictures of San Francisco, still-packed boxes, and a blank big screen TV.
“It’s really him,” Sybil said.
“I know.”
Rue was silent.
“Mother?”
Rue watched the man in the mirror. “Is his head all right?”
Cyan could just barely see the gash in his forehead, pulled together by stitches. “Yeah. His girlfriend got the worst of it.”
“And she’s in a coma?” Rue asked.
“Yes.”
Rue shrugged. “People wake from comas.”
Cyan looked up at her giant of a father, who watched his wife with concern. “Mother. Why are you upset?”
Rue said a string of unintelligible words, and the scrying mirror turned black. “Did you touch him when you were together?”
Cyan hesitated, and then nodded.
“And nothing magic happened? You didn’t feel anything?”
Cyan looked at her feet, anywhere but at her father. “Well, I felt something.”
Sybil giggled until Rue glared her way. “This boy, this Liam you’ve been drawing my daughter’s whole life, you’re sure they’re meant to be together. Then, why does he already have a woman?”
“Well.” Sybil fidgeted with a hand-woven scarf on a nearby rack. “He’s meant to be Cyan’s true love. It doesn’t mean they’ll be together.”
“What?” Cyan hissed.
“I’m sorry if I wasn’t clear on that.”
“You’re saying that I’m destined to fall in love with him, but he might never fall in love with me.”
Sybil looked up through strings of red hair. “Oh, he’ll fall in love with you, girl, but that doesn’t promise you’ll end up together. People in love hurt each other every day. It’s not always happily ever after.”
Cyan looked to her daddy, who looked at her mother, who looked at Sybil.
“But, I don’t know,” Sybil shouted. “It could all end up just fine. You could have a dozen babies with that beautiful piece of man.”
Cyan thought of Zoe. “Not if the cost is a woman’s life.”
“I see what I see,” Sybil said, “and I see him. Always have. And when I see him, I see him with you.”
Cyan growled. “I can’t think about this right now. What about the witch I saw in the street? He was obviously going after someone in the trolley.”
Drake nodded. “We need to figure out who was on that trolley.”
He did go home, like Cyan said, but he couldn’t stand to stay there—not with all the reminders of Zoe from twenty-four hours ago, before the trolley flipped, before the coma. Her perfume bottle was still on the sink, cap off. His glass of wine still sat next to it, half finished. He rushed back to the hospital.
The nurse checked Liam’s injuries while he lurked about in Zoe’s room, living on coffee and grief. Although the cut on his head was deep, she said it was nothing to worry about. He mentioned the headaches, and she said, sure, that could happen. He didn’t tell her he’d been having headaches long before the car accident.
A sudden storm rose up outside, pummeling the hospital windows like tiny fingers tapping, tapping, desperate to come inside. He stared at Zoe’s unmoving body and considered buying earplugs, only to silence the storm and the constant beeping of machines. The sound was almost as painful as the stitched up wound on his head and the bruises on his ribs.
“Liam.”
He looked over his shoulder at the sound of his name and saw his boss from the Bistro. Liam rose to greet him. “You didn’t have to come, Max.”
Max shook his head but not in disagreement—more in disbelief that Liam would doubt his visit. “The whole restaurant won’t stop ask
ing questions about you.”
Liam nodded and allowed himself to be hugged. Max Henny was definitely a hugger, even though he more closely resembled a high-priced lawyer than a Care Bear. He was almost as tall as Liam, trim and thin with a shiny, hairless head and impeccable clothes—usually perfectly pressed black suits—although he never wore a tie. Max had built the Broad Street Bistro from the ground up, and even though he was now filthy rich, he still worked almost every night and took a personal interest in all his employees.
They’d gotten along well at Liam’s interview, and, after a quick check of Liam’s references, Max offered him the job. He started working the next day since the Bistro was desperate, what with Liam’s predecessor having quit quite suddenly due to heart health issues. They needed Liam as much as he needed the job.
Max pulled out of their embrace and looked at Zoe. “How is she?”
“No change so far, but they keep telling me it’s only been a day so it’s too early to tell.”
“Don’t worry,” Max said forcefully. “She’ll be fine.”
“Yeah.”
Max turned and held tight to Liam’s shoulders. “What happened to your head?”
“It’s nothing. I think I just hit the steering wheel. A couple stitches.”
“Do you feel strange at all? Head injuries can have lasting effects.”
“I’m okay.” He shrugged Max’s hands off his upper arms. Liam had never had a father, so the extra care was sometimes appreciated—but, right then, it felt suffocating. “Have they figured anything out about the accident?”
Max put his hands on his hips and took a few steps toward the window, where the heavy rain now poured like one constant ocean wave down the glass. “You should see it today—glass everywhere, debris. They’ve been searching for evidence. I guess, like you said, for an explosion. I suppose the rain will wash that all away. Have the police talked to you?”
“Briefly.” Liam hardly remembered the call from an hour ago. “Just on the phone. I told them I saw a red flash.”
“And you’re sure that’s all you saw?”
Liam shrugged. “What else was there to see? A red flash, and then, a flying trolley. Zoe didn’t even scream. There wasn’t time.” He paused. “This is going to sound completely idiotic in South Carolina, but have any terrorist groups claimed responsibility?”
Max glanced back at him, a slight tilt to his lips.
“I know it’s stupid. I’m just trying to figure out who would bomb a trolley.” He sat back down in the chair by Zoe’s bed.
“Well, the world today, who knows?” Max nodded. “Flowers got here fast.”
The room was covered in bouquets from Zoe’s co-workers and a couple from staff members at the Bistro—mostly from female employees Liam knew were attracted to him. Those bouquets were almost like sick jokes, screaming, If she dies, I’m available.
“I’d heard of Southern hospitality,” Liam said. “Now I’ve seen it.”
“I brought you this instead.” Max pulled a silver flask from his inside suit pocket and handed it to Liam. “I know it’s not a French Bordeaux, but I didn’t think I could sneak a whole wine bottle in here.”
Liam unscrewed the top and gave it a sniff. He may have been a wine specialist, but he recognized a nice scotch when he smelled it. He took a sip, no matter it was only noon. “Thank you.” He took another sip and lifted the flask to Zoe in a one-sided salute. “I can’t imagine we just moved here for her to die, Max.”
“She’s not going to die.”
“How do you know?”
“You’ll save her.”
Liam smirked. “I’m no doctor.”
“She knows you’re here. She’s not going anywhere, okay?” Max put his hand on Liam’s shoulder and squeezed. “Call me if you need anything.”
“I don’t have your number anymore. My cell phone was in the car. Probably burnt to ash by now.”
“I’ll write it down.” Max circled Liam’s chair and reached for a piece of paper on the table by Zoe’s bed. “Who’s Cyan Burroughs?”
Liam didn’t move his eyes from the love of his life. “The girl who helped save Zoe. And me, I guess.” He took another sip of scotch. “Everyone at the Bistro calls her Blondie.”
Max scoffed. “That tiny thing dragged you from a car?”
“She’s apparently a lot stronger than she looks.”
“Some people say she comes from a family of witches. Maybe she used her magic powers.”
Liam chuckled. “You guys believe in that stuff around here?”
While writing, Max said, “Her aunt owns a bookstore right down from the Bistro. Maybe I’ll drop in and tell her thanks.”
“It’s all right, Max. I don’t think she’d appreciate the praise. She seems pretty private, really.”
“Wouldn’t you be, if you were a witch?” Max returned the piece of paper to the table.
“There’s no such thing as witches, but I appreciate the distracting dialogue.”
Max gave his shoulder another squeeze. “Anything you need, call, even if it’s a rare steak from the Bistro. Tommy will run it up. We’ve got you covered at work. We’re a family at the Bistro.”
Liam nodded and strangely wanted to call Cyan.
Pearlz Restaurant was loud, crowded, and smelled of fresh oysters. Cyan sat at the bar where she awaited her own dozen raw blue points. Her Bloody Mary rested on a small, white napkin in front of her, sweating as ice melted. She took a sip, and thanks to Pearlz’s in-house, spicy vodka, smiled a little at the burn she loved so much. Cyan wasn’t an overly smiley person, but oysters and Bloody Mary’s often did the trick.
She waited for her father.
Once they realized they needed to assign an identity to the trolley target, Drake was sent forth to do one of his tricks. He didn’t exactly become invisible, but he had a magical way of shielding himself from the sight of others, like a ghost you only see out the corner of your eye. He could sneak into anywhere like that, even the Charleston Police Department, even the hospital—although she’d made her father swear to go nowhere near Liam or Zoe. He went in search of records, names, anything that might enlighten them as to why a dark witch flipped a trolley in the middle of Broad Street and killed people.
She thought of Zoe. For all Cyan knew, the woman was awake, and Liam was happy and everything was all right—for them. She thought Liam might call her if Zoe died. She hoped he would. She pulled the folded drawing of him from her wallet and looked at the black and white scrawling by her crazy aunt. One thing could be said for Sybil: she was an amazing artist. The resemblance between the picture and the real man was astounding, although it was nice to see him in color. Cyan finally knew the ashy dark brown of his hair, the bright green of his eyes, and the cream with a dash of coffee complexion. She knew the way he moved, like a purebred horse, really—the grace and balance of a career showman. To have landed the job as manager at the Broad Street Bistro, Liam had to be a man of appearances and charm. He looked the part; he talked the part. He was nothing like her.
She felt her father’s presence before she saw him and hurriedly returned the picture of Liam to her wallet. Drake seemed to materialize beside her just as her tray of oysters appeared.
“Shit,” she gasped. “Daddy, I hate when you do that.”
He smiled at her with his big teeth—Drake Burroughs was big everywhere—and took a seat with a stack of paper in his huge hands. Familiar with the family, the bartender brought over a Coast IPA and placed it in front of Cyan’s father.
“Did you get what we needed?” She squeezed a lemon over the slimy creatures in their silver shells.
“Do I ever disappoint?” He tugged a piece of her hair, which made her glare. “A full list of everyone on the trolley at the time of the attack and the names of who lived, who died.”
“Do you recognize any of the names?”
“Nothing I noticed. No ancient Craft family names, no.” He took a Drake-sized sip of beer, which was a normal man
’s gulp. “Most of the victims were tourists.”
“Okay.” She poured a salty oyster into her mouth, using its shell as a serving spoon. “Maybe we should only focus on the people who aren’t tourists?”
“Why do you say that?”
“It’s possible the witch who did this traveled to get his victim, followed him or her here, but why attack someone on their vacation?”
Drake frowned. “People put their guard down on vacation.”
“So maybe we only look at tourists?”
“I think we look at everyone on this list. We also have to consider that if the dark witch was successful in his attack, if his intended target is indeed dead, then he’s probably long gone.”
She added some Tabasco and swallowed another treat. “And therefore not our problem.”
“Well…” Drake lifted one shoulder.
“What?”
“The power it takes to flip a trolley? That’s a lot of power, little girl.”
Cyan shook her Bloody Mary glass until the ice danced. “I know you think it could be the Dorcha. So isn’t there, like, a database of people with one blue eye and one green?”
“You’re referring to the Book of Shadows prophecy.”
“Yes.” She slapped the heavy wooden bar in irritation. “The only clue we have about the Dorcha: they will have one green eye and one blue eye—and their lifetime will coincide with mine as Loach.”
Drake shook his head. “There isn’t a database, no, but be sure to look closely at people’s eyes, huh?” He paused. “Then again, a powerful witch aware of the prophecy would cast their eyes to match.”
“Yeah, fucking fantastic. Daddy, if whoever caused the accident was the Dorcha, why aren’t I shooting lightning out of my fingers yet?”
He chuckled. “It might not start immediately, and it could start small. When you reach for a spoon, maybe it shakes before you touch it. Maybe try some incantations and see if anything happens.”
She ate another oyster. “I’m done talking about this right now.”
“I know you’re frustrated by your lack of ability, but it’ll come.”
Magic Spark Page 16
