by Grey, Shanon
John pulled in front of the bed and breakfast. He turned to Morgan. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Don’t. I’ll have Dorian call you when everything is set and we’ll tell you what to do. This is Jenn’s vocation, her passion—her life. Let her help them.” She leaned over and brushed a kiss across his cheek.
He smiled. He looked at Dorian, his eyes twinkling, “If—” he started to make a comment to his friend, before he was interrupted.
“Not a chance.” Dorian clasped John’s arm. “I’ll call you later.”
“Too bad,” John chuckled, then turned serious once more. “Thanks,” John said and drove away.
Morgan looked at the gorgeous Victorian in front of her. She had no energy. Her legs felt cemented to the ground. She was tired beyond words. She was wrinkled. She wasn’t sure she didn’t smell. Then, the faint aroma of rosemary wafted out and her stomach growled. She grinned in spite of herself. It seemed her stomach talked incessantly in this town.
Dorian grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the porch. Teresa burst out of the door and planted herself in front of them. “Don’t go in there!”
“Why?” Dorian asked.
“Jasmine’s in there. And she’s having dinner with Morgan’s friend.”
Morgan let out a groan. “How in the hell…,” she gave up and shook her head. She’d forgotten about Rob. And Jasmine. There was no way she was ready to confront that combination.
“Go back to the shop. I’ll have a basket sent over. I promise you, it’ll be better than being here.” She hugged Morgan. “You look beat, little one.” She threw a scathing look at Dorian.
“What’d I do?” he asked.
Teresa ignored him. “I’ll throw in a little something special for you,” she winked at Morgan and ushered them back down the steps. She looked behind her, watching the door, and waved them on.
“I adore that woman,” Morgan said as she walked beside Dorian. As tired as she was, Teresa had a way of putting a spring in her step. She wondered if that was Teresa’s “gift.” She wondered if everyone in Ruthorford had a “gift.” She put that on her growing list of questions.
With the next breath, she stopped smiling. She had forgotten Rob was even in town. And now he was with Jasmine. That couldn’t be good. Had Jasmine told Rob about her parents, about her? She looked over at Dorian and frowned. He and Jasmine were close. She wondered just how much he’d told Jasmine about her.
He stopped. They were outside the shop. He looked at the knob, reached down, turned it, and pushed it open.
“You didn’t lock it?”
He just smiled at her.
“What was that look you gave me?” he asked.
“What look?”
“The one before the door. The worried look?”
“Nothing.” She was too tired to worry about anything except helping Meadow.
The soft light shining from above the kitchen table drew Morgan forward. She started to sink down in the kitchen chair, only to rise when she heard Meesha’s bark from the back door. Dorian waved her back down. He opened the door. Meesha gave Dorian no more than a glance, pranced over to Morgan, and pushed her nose under Morgan’s hand.
“Hey, Meesha,” Morgan let her hand run over the soft fur.
“What am I, chopped liver?”
“No,” Morgan laughed, “cause if you were, she wouldn’t have come to me.”
At the sound of the dry food hitting her bowl, Meesha forgot Morgan.
A soft tap on the glass of the front door had Dorian moving quietly through the shop. She heard him speaking softly to someone at the door and then heard it close. He came back carrying a large basket. “Here or in the cottage?”
“Where are we least likely to be found?” Morgan couldn’t handle Rob or Jasmine for a good eight hours—or more.
“Not a problem.” Dorian turned back toward the shop and pulled pocket doors out of the walls, shutting off the shop completely. Morgan stared. She hadn’t noticed them before.
Dorian’s sigh turned her attention back to the table. He was wrestling a chilled bottle of Pinot Grigio out of the basket. He deftly set it on the table, swung around, and grabbed two wine glasses. “You do drink wine?”
She held up a glass and grinned.
She settled back as Dorian produced a light Caesar salad, herb butter biscuits, and chicken penne from the basket. He brought plates and quickly had the table set, so, had she not seen the basket, she would never have guessed the sumptuous meal before her hadn’t been produced right here. The aromas teased the taste buds. She sipped her wine slowly and savored its crisp cold flavor.
She watched the man across from her. In spite of the fact that they had spent part of the afternoon in conditions that would wilt the hardiest person, his white shirt still appeared crisp and his scent still clean. Jenn would love the faint hint of patchouli. He ate with determination and yet with elegance. Refined.
Dorian glanced up at her. Her fork stopped halfway to her lips. His gaze focused on her mouth.
She swallowed. Took a sip of wine to avoid choking. Feral. That was it. She wondered if there such a thing as elegant wildness. She felt like she was getting a buzz and she felt certain it wasn’t the little bit of wine she’d consumed. The hair on her arm tickled. She looked down. Tiny blonde hairs stood on end.
“Stop that!”
Dorian smiled at her and sipped his wine. Her arm went smooth again. “When you’re friend calls—tell her we can arrange for Abbott House to transport.”
“I can tell you right now, she will be coming down to go with them.”
“That’s fine. Let me know when and I will set it up with Bask.”
“I thought he was an attorney.”
“He’s a lot of things.”
Which was true of everything around here. Morgan sensed she had only seen the tip of the iceberg where “different” was concerned. She needed time to collect her thoughts. Except things kept happening. She wondered if it had always been this hectic for her biological parents.
Her phone rang. She flipped it open. “Jenn. Thanks”
“No problem. I am coming down—”
“Wait.” Morgan put her on speaker. “Dorian says he will set up transportation. Just let me know when.”
“I think the sooner the better. Set it up for tomorrow. I’ve cleared my schedule. I’ll fly down, meet up at your place, and go back with them. We will be going straight to the hospital. I can have one of our vans waiting.”
Dorian spoke for the first time. “Let me arrange all transportation. That way we can control security—at least to the hospital. We can arrange for security personnel as well.”
“That bad?”
“He’s an angry, powerful man.”
Jenn’s voice was controlled. Tight. “Did he do this?”
“No. We think one of his henchmen got out of control. I doubt we will ever see that man again.”
“Ahh,” Jenn said in understanding.
“Talk with Morgan. I’ll call Bask.” Dorian got up.
Morgan held up her hand, grabbed the pen on the table, jotted down Jenn’s number and handed the paper to Dorian. He smiled, pulled his phone out of his pocket, opened the pocket doors and eased through, sliding them closed behind him.
“Am I still on speaker?” Jenn asked.
“No.” Morgan put the phone to her ear.
“Wow!”
Morgan knew what Jenn meant. Where John’s voice was warm whiskey, Dorian’s was a little deeper, thicker, like brandy. “Yeah,” she breathed.
“You are so in trouble.”
“You have no idea.”
“Everything okay?” Jenn was quick to pick up cues.
“Rob’s here.”
“What the—”
Dorian walked back in. “Tell her to be ready at nine.”
Morgan spoke, but didn’t add any more about Rob. “I can’t wait to see you. We’ll have you all on a flight back to Virginia,” she looked at Doria
n for cues, “late afternoon.” She read his hand movement. “Four-thirty, Dorian says. It’ll be tight, but I know you can do it.”
“See you tomorrow. I’ll call your mom. Anything you need?” Jenn asked.
“My own clothes,” Morgan almost whimpered.
“I can take care of that. See you tomorrow. Love you.” Jenn disconnected.
The phone trilled again as soon as Morgan shut it. Morgan started to answer. Dorian grabbed the phone and held it in front of her face. Rob’s cell number flickered across the screen.
“Thanks.” She took the phone and set it on the table.
“Are you ready?” Dorian asked. Before she could answer, he swung around with a plate topped with two, large, scrumptious confections—some sort of pastry—like a tart, but flakey, dusted with sugar.
He waved them under her nose. “This is your treat…” he teased and moved away as she reached out.
“Wait. Let me warm them just a touch…” He smiled at her, popped them into the microwave, licked the sugar off of his fingers as the microwave counted down 13 seconds. He had done this before. When he opened the door, she salivated. The smell was heaven.
He lifted one and held it. She took a bite. The crust was light and broke off in her mouth. A very light hint of berry touched her tongue. She knew she had powdered sugar on her mouth. Just as her tongue slipped out lick it off, Dorian captured her mouth, his tongue sliding across her lips. She moaned.
He put the plate on the table and pulled her up into his arms. His mouth went from warm to hot. She sank into him. He tasted of berries and wine. She knew she was losing control.
Dorian realized he was in trouble. He couldn’t help himself. When her pink tongue had slipped out to lick that light dusting of sugar from her upper lip, his mind went blank. Her lips became a magnet to his. He felt as though he would die if he didn’t get a taste of her. Right then. And it was worth every moment of purgatory ever invented—her warm lips parting for him, the feel of her unbound breasts against his chest, the curve of her waist tapering in and then flaring softly under his hands.
She moaned into his mouth. He moaned back. Then, using the few brain cells left in his head, he pulled back. Her eyes were shut. He hands caressed her shoulders and he watched her eyes flutter open. Those emerald facets shimmered, then darkened as her pupils dilated. Her desire pulsed.
Pulsed. The word shot through his brain like gunfire. Shit. He stepped back quickly, right into the closed doors leading to the shop. He edged around her until he was against the sink. He turned, pulled the handle of the faucet up and stuck his head in the cold water.
Morgan watched him leap away from her like she had shocked him. Finally, she thought. She continued to watch him as he moved his body around the corner of the refrigerator toward the sink, staying as far away from her as possible—as though she brandished a hot poker and was aiming it directly at his middle, or lower. She cocked her head, watching him jam his head under the faucet, amusement overtaking the flagrant longing coursing through her veins.
What the hell was going on? One minute he’s pulling her against him with a force that could have melded their bodies. Then he’s leaping away. This pull me/pull you behavior had been going on since she arrived. Dorian was one big contradiction. One minute angry, the next loving. One minute wanting, the next avoiding. She seemed to be the central theme or cause of his actions—or inactions. Well, this wasn’t any bowl of jellybeans for her either. Suddenly, as if some floodgate opened, the stress of the last week washed over Morgan. Her hands shook; her eyes burned. Knowing she was losing control, she turned and fled up the stairs.
Dorian pulled the dishtowel from his wet face to see Morgan’s back disappear up the stairs and into the master bedroom. He heard the door close softly and ascended two steps when he thought better of it. He trod back down and slumped into the chair he’d pulled her out of just moments before. What had he been thinking? She wasn’t ready for this. Hell, he wasn’t ready for this—whatever this was.
He rested his chin on the palm of his hand and stared out the dark window. Why hadn’t he listened to Mel and Thom when they’d explained things to him? Because I was a bloody teenager, he countered in his own defense. And—you were supposed to live forever, he added sadly.
Memories flooded his mind. Melissa calling from the garden for them to take it outside when he and Thom started throwing small electrical balls at one another during one of his “compounding” lessons. Thom had such an impetuous sense of humor and everything was done in fun and with great love and laughter. When caught, Thom could look at Mel with that sheepish twinkle and she would just melt and shake her head. Now, he not only had to remember their teachings, but impart them to Morgan as well. He pushed himself away from the table and strode out the back door, calling for Meesha to follow. The door slammed behind them.
It was dark in the garden. No lights emanated from the cottage. He could barely make out the structure of the gazebo as he headed that way. Feeling the weight of loss, he fell into the swing in the gazebo and felt the uneven jostle as Meesha hopped up next to him. She laid her head in his lap, waiting for his caress. He obliged, softly stroking her fur—taking whatever comfort he could get.
“Poor girl,” he spoke softly to the dog, “we forget you miss them too.” She whined softly in response.
Meesha had sensed Mel and Thom were gone before he knew. She had come scratching at the back door, drawing him away from his work out front. He would let her in, she would wonder around, lie down for a while, and head back to the door, wanting out. After about the fourth time in as many hours, he’d lost patience with her and wouldn’t let her inside. She stood at the door whining until he relented. She laid down at the foot of the stairs, watching him. It was shortly thereafter that he’d gotten the phone call from Bask. They’d spent the night huddled on the floor in the master bedroom, wanting it to be different, waiting for the sound of the couple’s familiar laughter as they came up the steps.
Now Dorian had to face the fact that he was alone here. He was in charge of The Shoppe of Spells—and all that implied—and had to decide what to do about Morgan. Obviously, it was Mel and Thom’s wish for her to be brought into the shop and trained. But why now—so late? He was sure Bask would have some answers. If not, he was sure Bask knew where to look or who to ask. One thing was for sure—Dorian didn’t have any answers, only more questions. Well, at least he could be honest with Morgan.
He glanced up at the light coming from the bedroom window. She must have turned on the bedside lamp. The light filtering from the window was muted, barely casting its glow to the ground. The gardens were quiet, quieter than it had been since Mel and Thom had left. As soon as they died, it was as though the creatures had gotten a free pass to come out. He couldn’t see them, but with Meesha aware of them, he knew more were about. That and Mr. Parker suddenly becoming forgetful. He knew he and Morgan had only sent a couple back—unless more had gone through at each opening. Dorian looked into the garden and squinted. He hated the fact that he couldn’t see them—that he had to rely on someone else.
With a huff, he gave one last stroke across Meesha’s back. “Come on, girl, let’s go inside,” he warned her before he moved. On cue, she lifted her cute face, looked up at him—just to make sure he wasn’t joking—and hopped down. He rose and headed inside, drawn by the light in Morgan’s room.
Morgan had closed the door to the master bedroom before she realized her quandary. Was it okay to escape up here? Should she have gone to the cottage? Well, he could tell her to leave, if he didn’t like it. She needed to be away from him for a little while. She needed a shower.
She turned on the bedside lamp and went into the bathroom. The soft scent of lavender permeated the air. She turned on the shower and pulled off the clothes she had worn for what seemed like days. As she stepped under the steaming spray, she closed her eyes and let the hot water stream down her face and body. Every muscle relaxed, one at a time. She washed from head to t
oe, thoroughly—trying to wash away her confusion about Dorian and the memories of that little girl lying helpless on that cot. With brisk strokes, she dried her skin until it glowed, applied the lavender lotion, wrapped a towel around her head, put another one about her body, and stepped into the bedroom. Padding quietly across the floor she opened one dresser drawer after another, looking for a nightgown. As she pulled out a pretty, lightweight muslin, an envelope fell to the floor. She pulled off the towels, put the gown over her head and let it slide down her body. Melissa’s signature scent wrapped around her like a hug. She bent over and grabbed the envelope. She flipped it over. In a beautiful script, her name was written across the front. Numb, leaving the towels on the floor where they had fallen, she crossed to the bed. Piling pillows against the headboard, she climbed upon the feathery mattress and turned up the lamp.
It was a woman’s handwriting. It had to be from Melissa. To her. She smelled the envelope. The same scent—the same one that scented the nightgown donning her body—floated from the paper. Her fingers trembled as she tore open the envelope and pulled out the letter. A necklace fell onto the bed. Morgan lifted it. The head of a tiny owl with emerald eyes looked back at her. She laid it gently on the comforter and opened the letter.
Dear Morgana,
Since it is well past your 25th birthday, I am assuming that the Briscoes have told you of your adoption.
Writing this is the hardest thing I have ever had to do, besides giving up my child—my lifeblood. I am your mother. Before you get angry, please understand that I am, in no way, trying to usurp the Briscoes’ place. However, it is time for you to fulfill your destiny.
Your heritage began in the 1700s, when Ian Galbreath took an Indian maiden to wife. He called her Mary after his Grandmother. Their daughter was the first (that we know of) born with our distinctive traits—eyes and birthmark—and our abilities. Abbott House has journals of our history. They can give you a much better accounting than I can.
