The Shoppe of Spells (The Gatekeeper Series)

by Grey, Shanon

  Kayla nodded. She looked back at Dorian. “Be careful; he’s like you. Maybe stronger.”

  “Thank you,” he said softly.

  Jenn stepped forward. “Did you see her? Is she all right?”

  “I couldn’t see her; I was seeing through her. I believe she’s okay. Tired. Her energy level is pretty low, for her.”

  He touched her arm, “How’s Jasmine?”

  “Healing. She’s been talking with our staff psychologist. I think she’s going to be okay. Give her time.”

  He nodded. He couldn’t help but feel that, somehow, it was his fault she’d gotten hurt.

  “Don’t do that to yourself,” Jenn said softly, reading the expression on his face. “It won’t help anyone.”

  He leaned over and kissed her cheek, “I can see why Morgan has you for a best friend.”

  Dorian started down the hall; John caught up. “Don’t for a minute think you’re doing this alone.”

  Dorian kept walking, but smiled just the same. He’d take all the help he could get.

  His thoughts shifted to Morgan. He didn’t feel the fear coming from her like he had earlier. One other thing baffled him—it had been Morgan who’d broken the link. He was sure of it. He could see Morgan doing something like that to protect him, keep him away. However, he wasn’t reading it that way. He would have to see when they got there.

  ****

  Morgan watched Ian watching her. He looked exhausted but weary. She had listened intently as he told his story—a pretty fantastic story at that. Ian claimed that his ancestors, or the ancestors of his ancestors, had come through the portal and mated with humans. Apparently, they were human-like, very much like him. Ian insisted he was a genetic regression. Whether or not he was a throwback mutation of some original “visitors,” she had no way of knowing. Certainly, Dorian hadn’t mentioned anything coming through the portal except the Gulatega. Ian was convinced that he, like the ancestors he claimed came here centuries ago, would die on this plane of existence and that he had to find a way to go through the portal himself.

  It looked, to Morgan, as though the man was definitely dying. Not immediately, but he wasn’t the heartiest of individuals, either. Then there was the lavender glow that surrounded him—just like his little critter friends at his feet. Could they be causing the illness? Humans—an odd thought—seemed adversely affected by them. Well, not she or Dorian, or people with their marks.

  “Mr. Macintosh,” she interrupted him.

  “Please, call me Ian,” he grinned a devilish grin and she could see his charm.

  “Ian, do you have a crescent moon shaped birthmark on your hip.”

  “Ah, lassie, want to be seeing me strip now?” He laid on the brogue.

  She scowled at him.

  He waved away her rebuke. “Actually, I have a crossed crescent.” He stood and unfastened his pants.

  Embarrassed, Morgan looked down.

  “Don’t go all girly on me, Morgana.” He turned sideways and lowered one side of his trousers. The two crescents, identical to the individual ones on her and Dorian, appeared darker, with their backsides abutted, prongs outward. He pulled his pants back up and fastened them.

  “My wife has a single, as does my daughter. This is another indication that I am a throwback to an original—”

  “Did it ever occur to you that you might be mutating forward, not backward?” She looked up into his eyes, the blue in his eyes beginning to show a lavender hue.

  “Can’t say that it did. But aren’t mutations meant to further the species, not end it?”

  She shook her head. “Mr. MacIn…Ian,” she corrected. “I don’t know. I’m new to all this myself. Have you talked with Bask or Dr. Yancy?”

  “I’m not ready to become someone’s specimen.” He snarled. “I got my introduction to Bask when I married Kayla. Sign this, agree to that. The man’s a legal pervert. As to Yancy,” he huffed. “Your Dr. Yancy is more minion to Bask than these creatures are to me,” he pushed his foot at one of the creatures. It scurried several feet before returning to its original spot. It could feel him. Could he feel them? Could she? Morgan shivered. She wasn’t willing to find out.

  “Why kidnap me? Why Meadow?”

  “You really don’t understand anything, do you?” He was becoming agitated. He realized he was frightening her and went back and sat down, instead of pacing, as he’d been. He ran his hand through his thinning hair.

  “The descendants go back much further in Scotland than here. You think Abbott House is rich?” He smirked. “They’re nothing. I’m rich.”

  Morgan wondered why this vent but said nothing.

  “I knew of Kayla. I did my research before I came here.” He looked toward the draped window and said half to himself, “Obviously, not that great a research or I would have known about you.”

  “Me?”

  “Yeah. You see, there aren’t that many ‘blended’ offspring, anymore. Those that aren’t paired, anyway.”

  Morgan shifted uncomfortably.

  “You’re paired. Dorian got to you first. I was hoping…,” he took a deep breath.

  Morgan didn’t say anything, but felt her face flush.

  A slice of a smile crossed his lips but didn’t go to his eyes. “Don’t be so naive. You couldn’t anymore resist a match-mate than breathing. If I’d have known about you, Dorian wouldn’t be slobbering after you now. Unfortunately, I lost. Once paired, another can’t transgress.”

  “But you’re married to Kayla,” Morgan reminded him.

  “Not the same. She’s only half. Together we created a blend.”

  Morgan shot up, a horrible possibility of his intention toward Meadow. “You weren’t going to—”

  “Oh, good God, no. Sit down. I would never hurt my daughter. As long as she’s unpaired, I can use my current with hers to open the portal. That’s what all this is about. That damned portal.”

  Morgan sat. “Why didn’t you just come to Dorian and me? We would have tried to help you.”

  He just shook his head. “Lass, you are so naïve. One, do you honestly think Dorian would let another match near you? Risk someone else pairing with you? Two, it’s not as simple as it seems. We don’t know what will happen. I’m willing to risk it, but are you?”

  “You were willing to risk your own daughter,” she accused.

  “No!” He was emphatic. “By the time I sent Leon after her, I knew it was too dangerous for her. Then everything went to hell. Son of a bitch hurt my bonny lassie.” His voice went sing-song, then flared. He looked down at his feet. “They killed the sorry SOB, saving me the trouble.”

  “So,” he became more controlled, “I knew I had to ask you. But I knew Dorian wouldn’t let you come.” He shrugged. “Here you are.”

  “There are others,” she said. “What about Mel and Thom?”

  “I went to Melissa and Thomas Kilraven a couple of years ago. They turned me down flat. Of course, I didn’t know they were protecting you.”

  Ian stopped talking and appeared to be staring into space. He gave a laugh. “Well, I’ll be hanged. Looks like Sir Galahad approaches.” He jumped up, grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her back toward the room where she’d been held.

  When Dorian’s presence had come to her earlier, she’d tried hard to keep Ian from knowing. That’s why she’d broken contact. Apparently, Ian could sense him before she could. She had no idea he was nearby.

  Ian appeared to sniff the air.

  “Don’t.” She pulled against him. He was stronger than he looked. “Please don’t. I’ll talk to him. Don’t fight him.”

  He turned on her, his eyes purple flames. He pushed her into the room and slammed the door.

  Morgan beat on the door. “Ian, please. We can help you. Let us try.”

  She kicked the door, pulled at the handle. “Dorian!” she screamed. Static noise flooded the room. Morgan slammed her hands over her ears. She couldn’t think. Couldn’t concentrate. She spun around. At least this ti
me she wasn’t tied to that damn cot. She reached out to the side and flipped on the switch. The bare cot where she’d lain was against the wall. Hand restraints dangled from the side. At the end, a silver tray with china cups sat in stark contrast to the dingy mattress on the barren iron cot.

  She scanned the room. It was empty except for the cot, a side table and a chair. The lights that had shone in her face were in the ceiling and over the door. Heavy drapery hung along one wall. Morgan ran to the drapes and pulled them back. A small window, high over her head, was covered with some sort of inset barricade. She pulled the chair over and climbed up. Wire mesh was stapled to plywood. Metal hurricane clips held the plywood in place inside the stone window frame. She wasn’t strong enough to remove them by hand. Her eyes searched frantically about the room. She jumped down and grabbed a silver spoon from the tray. She stuck it under the edge of the metal, forcing the clamp, using it to pull the edge of the board toward her. She quickly worked on each clip. The spoon bent. Pain swept up her arm as her knuckles scraped against the stone edge of the window. The board edge finally gave, and she pulled it out of the window, letting the low afternoon sunlight cascaded into the room.

  She thought about trying to break the window, but the glass was too thick. She took the tray to the window, hoping to catch a ray of light and send a signal. As she placed the tray against the window, she felt a sting. A small jolt went through her arm and was gone. The noise stopped. She must have shorted a circuit of some sort. With her hands pressed against the tray, she cleared her mind of everything but Dorian.

  Tremors ran down her arms to the tray. She concentrated on the flow of current. Suddenly, she could see him in her mind, at the gate, against the wall. She pushed harder. She saw him stop, stand dead still, and stare. Current flowed back to her and warmth infused her. She took a deep breath. It was him. Dorian was with her. In her. Part of her. She smiled as energy flowed back and forth between them. She felt as though she was growing stronger. The hair on her arms stood on end. She tingled. She pushed it back.

  She understood. She got it. She waited for his signal. Waiting for the energy to build, she paused and concentrated. She felt the tug and gathered everything she could and pushed it to him. She heard a loud pop. The tray zapped her and, and unable to control her movements, she watched as the heavy silver tray clattered to the floor. Morgan jumped down to retrieve it and stopped. She heard movement in the hall. Yanking the drape across the window, she ran to the door and flipped off the light, backing up to the cot. She sat, placing the tray on the floor. She shivered.

  “Please, God, let Dorian be through the gate,” she prayed.

  The ensuing moments were torture. She found herself torn between just wanting to escape and wanting to help Ian. If his story was true, Morgan believed she and Dorian could help him. There was another part of her that doubted him. She knew—somehow—that he wasn’t telling her the whole story. One thing was certain. The flare in his eyes was unlike anything she had ever seen. It wasn’t human; it wasn’t sane.

  The door crashed against the wall. She knew Dorian had made it into the house at the same time Ian pulled her off the cot. His grip was fierce. His current was erratic; it sparked chaotically. She could feel Dorian reaching out to her, but it was as if Ian shielded her. He yanked her toward the hall.

  “Dorian,” he yelled. “I have Morgan. If you don’t want me to hurt her, you’ll show yourself.”

  “He’s bluffing!” she screamed.

  Ian slapped her with his other hand. Dorian stepped into the long corridor.

  “Let her go.” His voice was deep—deadly.

  Ian pulled her against him. At the same time, he released a ball of electrical fire, aimed directly at Dorian’s chest. Dorian dove to the floor, rolled and looked at Morgan. She felt the pull. Dorian’s nod was so slight she wasn’t sure she saw it. As Ian pulled her head back, pain shot through her neck. She pushed as much of her energy toward Dorian as she could. She heard a crackle and a bolt threw her down the hall and against the wall.

  Pain shot through her.

  Her head felt fuzzy and her vision blurred.

  She heard Ian scream across from her. She blinked, focused, and saw him slide down the wall.

  Flurries of outlines cluttered around him. She tried to yell to Dorian as he approached the fallen man. The creatures leapt in mass at Dorian. She watched him twitch and brush at his body, a look of confused agony on his face. Too dizzy to stand, she crawled to him and grabbed his leg, pulling herself up. Wrapping her arms around his waist, she put her legs against his and her head against his chest. She breathed deep and felt the current flow between them. The creatures slid down his body and circled around their legs. They appeared confused. Slowly they returned to the unconscious form on the floor. She had to look closely to tell he was breathing.

  John poked his head around the corner. “Is it safe?”

  “For now,” Dorian sounded out of breath. He was holding Morgan against him, not loosening his grip. Ever so often he planted a kiss on her head. He breathed deep.

  “I’m not immune to voltage, like some people I know,” John said sheepishly. “However, I did disable his rather impressive security system while I waited.”

  “What do we do with him?” John walked near Ian.

  “Careful,” Morgan said, “the Gulatega surround him.”

  John took several steps back.

  Morgan thought for a moment. “The room where he had me. There’s a small sink in the corner.”

  “Good girl. We’ll ground him. If we handle him gently and together, we should be okay.”

  The man was no lightweight. Under protest, John was relegated to moving the car to the front while Dorian and Morgan attempted to move the unconscious behemoth down the hall and into the small room. Since Morgan was the only one who could actually see the creatures, she wanted to keep them as far away from the two of them as possible.

  At first Dorian suggested they try carrying him, with Dorian carrying most of the torso weight and Morgan grappling with the feet. Watching her dance around Ian’s feet became amusing. She would gingerly move in and reach down, then jump back shacking off her hands, like she’d encountered spider webs.

  Of course, all this was going on while Dorian held Ian’s upper body off the floor. The dead weight of the man increased exponentially. As she danced back for the third time, Dorian set the man down with an oomph.

  “Can you actually feel them?” he asked, trying the keep the mirth from spilling out of his mouth.

  She turned on him, hands on her hips. “If I hadn’t actually seen them attack you, I’d let you take the damn feet. They…they…” she fought for a word, “slither. I don’t feel them exactly; I think I just think I do.” She shuddered.

  “Okay, they seem to want to stay at his feet. Let me just drag him from the shoulders. You get the door.”

  Dorian shifted his arms under the man’s shoulders and arms, twisted around and began dragging him across the floor. “He’s limp as a rag,” he huffed. Ian’s shoulders would slouch together making him damn near impossible to hang onto.

  By the time they had him arranged on the floor next to the sink, with his hands handcuffed to the water pipe, Ian started to rouse. Morgan ran out of the room. By the time she was back, Ian was out again.

  “What’d you do?”

  Dorian shrugged, “I cold cocked him.” He rubbed his knuckles.

  “John’s back. I told him to wait in the library. I have something that will probably work better than shoving your fist in his face every five minutes.” She held up a vial and a syringe.

  “Where did you get that and what’s in it?”

  “I saw it in the library when Ian was talking to me. I’m assuming it’s what he used on me.”

  He took the vial from her and looked at the label. “Carbamazepine. I didn’t know it came in this form.” He looked at the vial. “This ought to work.” He took the syringe, turned the vial upside down and withdrew half a
syringe.

  She handed him the alcohol wipe and went down to the feet. “I’ll distract them.” She shuddered and knelt down. They swirled around her. “Kinda hurry, please.”

  Dorian pulled out Ian’s arm, swabbed and stabbed. “Okay,” he said and backed away.

  Morgan stood and took two steps back. At first, they followed her. Her eyes widened as she looked at Dorian. They turned and studied the unconscious man on the floor and crawled back to him, settling near his waist.

  “All gone?” Dorian asked.

  “Yes.” A shudder ran down her body. “But I’ll be glad when they really go away.”

  They closed the door to the room and joined John in the library. Morgan was still shaking off imaginary creatures. John turned to them as they entered.

  “Look what I found.” He was standing beside a credenza against a side wall. The huge pastoral oil painting hung away from the wall on a hinge. A large wall safe gleamed shiny black behind it. “The security system is off, but without—”

  Dorian walked over, put his hand over the keypad, waited a few seconds, grabbed the lever and pulled down. The heavy door swung open.

  John whistled. “If you ever want to enter a life of crime…” he slapped his friend on the back.

  Dorian looked at Morgan but spoke to John, “You’ll be the second to know.”

  John pulled out documents. He flipped through several. “I’ve got his will.” John pulled out a leather folder, flipped through the pages. He whistled. “Meadow is going to be one wealthy young lady,” he commented. “Kayla has guardianship, and is also named as an heir.” He studied it some more. “Know anything about a MacIntosh tome?”

  Morgan pointed to the glass enclosed case. John walked over and glanced down. “That goes to the Abbott House, through Meadow, as does…hey, hey…listen to this,” he turned to his friends, “…all research papers, notes, paraphernalia, equipment, and lab experiments of one Dr. Robert Milineaux, while under my employ…” He looked at Morgan.

  “I’ll be damned.” Dorian commented and turned to Morgan, who stared down at the leather bound tome, not meeting their gaze.