The smile was real, even though the pain of her gift tormented her. He’d seen her suffer; he knew she was tormented by the visions. Visions that commanded her, when it should be the other way around. Waking nightmares that tore at her very soul. He should not want to help her, should not care. But he did.
He’d tried to help Sybil, hadn’t he? He’d seen her suffering and had done everything he could to save her. That attempt to help had ended so very badly... No, he could not let his mind go there, could not relive failures of the past. This time would be different. There would be no personal involvement.
If he failed, if she died, he would be able to move on without feeling as if the entire world had been ripped apart beneath his feet.
So why was he watching her? Why did he sit in a dark corner and use his abilities to spy on her as she engaged in perfectly ordinary activities? She sat at an empty table outside the coffee shop, took a pen from her purse and began to write on the postcards. Three short notes.
Her activities were ordinary—there was nothing for him to be alarmed about—but he did not stop watching, did not release the stone and clear his mind of her even though he knew he should. Echo was nothing like Sybil, not in looks or in temperament. She wasn’t like his last student, either, an eager young man who’d wanted much more than he’d initially revealed.
Echo was an open book; she hid nothing from him.
Everyone in Cloughban knew what he was; they knew what he could do. Some of it, anyway. No one knew all, though he was certain a few suspected. Most of them were not entirely normal themselves, though no others had earned the designation wizard. Touched with magic, they had been drawn here as his ancestors had been. Some stayed for a year or two and moved on. Others were lifelong residents. A few came just for a few weeks, curious or needing a short refuge.
Echo asked why anyone would live here, and he had not been able to give her a truthful answer. Here, I am with my kind. Here, I am safe from prying eyes. And most importantly, Here, I feed on the power of the stones.
He never should’ve agreed to help her, never should’ve allowed himself to get caught up in her troubles. It was not too late to remedy that mistake, no matter what Cassidy had told her. Very little in this life was written in stone. He was in charge. He could and would change what was, perhaps, meant to be.
All he had to do was tell Echo he’d changed his mind about helping and send her away. All he had to do was look her in the eye and say, “No.” Sounded simple enough, but as he watched her from a distance, he wondered if it would be that easy.
Chapter 6
Postcards mailed, Echo walked back toward the Quinlan house. She wondered if she had time for a nap. No, if she overslept and was late for work again, Duncan would kill her!
The white clapboard bed-and-breakfast was as charming as everything else in Cloughban, outside and in. It was well maintained, in spite of its obvious age. The porch, the lace curtains in the downstairs windows, the plain furnishings—everything was spotless. The kitchen was small but functional, as was the dining room. Mrs. Quinlan—there was never any mention of a Mr. Quinlan and Echo didn’t feel she knew her landlady well enough to ask—slept in the single downstairs bedroom, while upstairs there were three bedrooms and a shared bath for her paying customers. At the moment, only two of those rooms were occupied. Since Echo and Maisy kept very different hours, they didn’t see each other often. Just as well. As far as Echo could see, Maisy had preferred having the second floor to herself.
Maybe she disliked sharing a bathroom.
Maybe she was like those women who’d come into the pub simply to glare at the new woman in town. Maisy was very pretty, tall and dark-haired and definitely a D-cup, so Echo didn’t see how she could see one more female in the mix as a threat, but...they were definitely not becoming friends.
There were several shelves of books in the downstairs parlor. As she passed by, Echo thought that maybe she’d grab one of those and read awhile. Then again, maybe she’d turn on the television in her room and see if it picked up more than one or two stations.
But, oh, a nap sounded so good. She still hadn’t adjusted to the time change.
Echo passed on the book, deciding to check first to see if there was anything on the television. She ran up the stairs, more energetic than she should be, all things considered, and threw open the door to her room. It wasn’t locked. What did she have to safeguard?
The first thing she noticed was that her bed had been neatly made. The next thing she saw was a manila envelope propped on her pillow. Maybe Maeve had dropped off the recipe for her scones, which Echo had praised that very morning.
She snatched the envelope off the bed, plopped down in the faded blue wing chair by the window and removed the contents.
Her heart nearly stopped. The single sheet in the envelope was not a recipe.
It was a recent photograph of her parents.
Echo had accepted a long time ago—somewhere around the age of nine—that her mother and father were useless in a crisis. They were not great parents and never had been. A child had never been in their plans. They liked to travel, to party at any opportunity. Her father’s gifts had never been very strong. He could read minds, when he worked at it. Her mother had been a stray—an independent, Duncan called them—who had the occasional bit of insight into what was to come.
Maybe it wasn’t fair to say they were useless. They did love her. Difficult as they were, she’d never doubted that. But they had never really known what to do with a daughter who had nightmares about disasters, a daughter who woke screaming in the night. A daughter who was much more powerful than they had ever been or could ever hope to be.
She knew the photo was recent because her mother’s haircut—shared in an email a few weeks back—was new. It looked as if they were in Paris. Yes, that was definitely Paris.
In the photo, the eyes of both her parents had been crossed out, messily and completely, with a ballpoint pen.
Her hands began to shake, her breath would not come. This was a blatant threat to their lives, she understood that much, but why here and why now? Who even knew she was here?
She’d just sent postcards to her cousins insisting that all was well. Postcards they wouldn’t receive for days. Maybe weeks, considering where they’d been mailed from. Now this.
For a few long seconds she sat there, horrifying picture grasped in her hands, heart beating so hard she could feel it pounding against her chest as if it wanted to escape. She didn’t know what to do. She didn’t know who to turn to. One word came to mind, as she began to recover from the shock.
Duncan.
* * *
Not only was Echo not late, she was more than an hour early. And she was not dressed for work. She was dressed as she had been that afternoon as she’d wandered about town with that easy smile on her face. For a moment Rye thought she’d shown up early to demand that they begin their lessons. That would be the time to tell her that he’d changed his mind.
No, that wasn’t why she was here. Something was wrong. Her face was oddly pale; her hands shook. He wondered if she’d had another vision—or was about to—and then she shook a manila envelope in his direction and said, “I don’t know what to do.”
She sat in the nearest chair, her legs giving out from under her, and held the envelope up for him to take.
Rye walked slowly toward her. He’d spent the past hour trying to decide how to tell her that he’d made a mistake and she had to go. Now. Tonight. He couldn’t afford to care about her troubles, and he sure as hell didn’t want to be her knight in shining armor. He was the last man in the world to fill those shoes.
He grabbed the envelope and removed the single sheet inside. It was easy enough to tell that the attractive older woman in the picture was Echo’s mother. They favored quite a bit.
“It was on my b
ed,” she said. “Just...sitting there. I thought it was a recipe.” She took a couple of deep, too-fast breaths. He worried she was on the verge of hyperventilating. “It’s a threat to my parents, right? My cell phone is worthless here. I dug it out of my bag instinctively, then just stared at it for a moment. I can’t call anyone, can’t send an email or...or...” Her eyes widened. “Police. Are there police here? A constable? A...an inspector?”
“Of course, but...”
She stood, seemingly a bit stronger now that she had a plan. He didn’t dare to tell her that the single constable in Cloughban wouldn’t know what to do, wouldn’t care, wouldn’t help at all.
“I have to go,” she said. “That’s all there is to it. When I get to the next town over I’ll call my mom’s cell, and I’ll call Dante, too. Maybe Gideon. Definitely Gideon.” Mercy? No, Mercy was too far away to get immediately involved, though it was possible one or both of her brothers would call her. “I’m not that far from Paris, I can get there in...”
Rye placed his hands on her shoulders. A few hours ago he would’ve been relieved to hear those words. I have to go. He’d had the same thoughts all afternoon. Yes, Echo Raintree had to go. Out of his life, away from Cloughban. Away from Cassidy. Dammit.
“You’re not going anywhere.” Against his new plans, against his better judgment.
“But I...”
“I have a phone, a landline. You can use it to call whoever you need to call.”
“Okay, thank you.” She looked up at him, eyes wide, lips full and far too tempting. “I’ll do that, but then I have to go.”
He knew that was a bad idea. With magic and without, he knew that no matter how unwise it was for her to stay, leaving would be worse. Dammit, she was going to turn his life upside down.
“You’re going to stay here,” he insisted. “We’re not finished.”
She shook her head.
His temper got the best of him and he snapped, “You can’t tell me the entire Raintree clan can’t protect two of their own from whatever or whoever threatens them.”
“Oh!” Echo’s green eyes shone. Her tense shoulders dropped a little as she relaxed. “If they’re on Sanctuary land they’ll be fine. Maybe they can take over my old job for a while.”
“Your old job?”
She grimaced. “I was keeper of the Raintree Sanctuary.”
In his experience, she did not have the discipline to be the keeper of anything. She was a roamer, a butterfly. A princess, not a queen. “You were replaced?”
She wrinkled her nose. “I quit last year and left a few months ago. Dante was very unhappy, but others have filled in since then. My parents can be next in line.”
She relaxed; she smiled. “They won’t like it, but they’ll be safe there.” He could almost see her body unwinding. “Everyone else I care about can more than take care of themselves.”
Of course they could. Raintree.
On occasion Rye had to remind himself that Echo was no normal woman. No lost and mildly gifted stray looking for others like herself, no independent in need of his assistance.
Doyle arrived early tonight, too. He sauntered through the front door, squinted as his eyes adjusted to the dimness of the pub, smiled when he saw Echo. His shoulders squared. Holy God, the woman was trouble. Doyle had been a perfectly steady and reliable employee since coming to town eight months ago. The man was nearing thirty, as Echo was. He was handsome enough to have caught the interest of a handful of women in town, ordinary enough not to cause a stir. Like most of the others in Cloughban, Doyle was different. Telekinesis was his gift. Rye had caught him moving pots about the kitchen a time or two, but he didn’t like anyone to watch. Once, when Rye had walked in and caught Doyle playing—or practicing—several pots had wobbled in the air and then hit the floor at once. The stones fed Doyle’s gifts, as they fed those of the other independents—strays—in town.
Echo nodded in Doyle’s direction. “I have a couple of phone calls to make, but when I’m done can I get a bowl of soup and some brown bread? I think I’m getting addicted to your brown bread.”
Doyle beamed. “Aye, lass. I’ll get to it.”
“Thanks.”
Again, she looked up at Rye. “What are you scowling at, boss?”
“I’m not scowling. This way to the phone.” He gestured with one hand and she stood. For a moment, a second or two, she stood too close. He could feel her body heat, smell her shampoo, sense the tremendous energy that rolled off her very fine body. She held her breath, and so did he.
Powers he’d tamped down for years shimmered. They danced. A part of himself that he’d buried deep—for good reason—took a breath as it tried to come to life. It took all his control to push it back down again.
He could not afford to allow the wizard he had once been to return. The stones that fed his power, that made Cloughban such a special place, also allowed him to control what he was. What he had once been.
Echo would not like what he had once been.
Walking behind her he pushed down the urge to brush her soft blond hair aside and kiss her neck. For comfort. For her and for himself. Just because he damned well wanted to know what that tempting neck tasted like.
He had no prophetic gifts; he did not know what the future held. But he knew that, like it or not, he wasn’t going to get rid of her anytime soon.
* * *
In years past Echo had played for smaller crowds, but not often. She’d admit that in the early days her all-girl band had been, well, a little rough when it came to hitting all the right notes. That had changed with time, but in those first few months they hadn’t been able to draw much of a crowd beyond drunk guys who thought it would be hot to hook up with a bass player or a drummer. The band had gotten better and had eventually built a following, but it had taken time.
She’d never performed alone, not until now.
Tonight less than a dozen warm bodies were scattered about the pub. The size of the crowd was a little disappointing. Of course, it was a weeknight. Maybe weekends were livelier.
At least those who were present seemed to like what they were hearing. She didn’t have to call on her weak and unwanted empathic abilities to see that. Several customers in the room smiled, a few tapped their feet or patted fingers on a table in time to the music. They all faced the stage and listened.
For tonight Echo sang ballads, love songs, a couple of sappy songs she’d written herself. To really rock out she needed a band behind her. Drums, a bass guitar, an electric piano and amplifiers. At least two big amplifiers. One woman and one acoustic guitar made for a quieter, gentler form of entertainment.
What would happen if she had an episode while she was on the postage-stamp-size stage in the Drunken Stone? She hadn’t had to worry about that before, when the visions had only come in her dreams. She hadn’t dared to sing in public since her powers had shifted and she never knew when she might be affected. Driving was risk enough, though she’d always told herself she could sense a vision coming on in time to pull to the side of the road. Maybe.
Now, however, she did worry. A little. How was she supposed to live her life if Duncan couldn’t help her manage this? Not for the first time, she wondered why his method of ridding her of the ability was so dangerous.
Sometimes she liked to imagine the life she would live without the visions. The people she could meet, the things she could do. No more worry about others finding out who she was and what she could do. No more hiding. It would be worth any risk to live that life.
Echo loved to play the guitar; she loved to sing. The fact that her fingers had already begun to hurt were a clear indication that it had been too long. She’d lost her calluses.
Tonight there were no visions. There was just music and laughter and applause. Even Duncan seemed to enjoy her performance. Doyle came out of the kitch
en a time or two to wait tables and lean against the bar to listen to her. He liked her a little, she knew, but he wasn’t her type. He was a nice guy. She’d never really gone for nice guys.
That was going to have to change. If she could manage a normal life without visions, without being called a prophet ever again, she’d eventually need a nice guy. The normal package—marriage, commitment, the whole wonderfully humdrum deal—didn’t work with the kind of bad boy she was usually attracted to.
Her mind went to her current family. Gideon was in charge of getting her parents to Sanctuary, and she had no doubt about his abilities to do so. The phone call had been tense, to say the least. He’d asked too many questions she couldn’t answer.
He’d been pissed to find out where she was; at least he didn’t know why she was here.
Halfway through her set, Maisy—the librarian the landlady had been so sure would be a great friend—came in with her good friend Shay. They were both pretty girls. Maisy had very dark brown hair; Shay’s was thick and a rich auburn. Dressed in their best—tight sweaters and short skirts and boots—they drew a lot of attention as they walked in.
It took no special powers to realize that neither of these women would ever be a friend to Echo. She got a sharp glance from both girls, then they gave their full piranha-like attention to the bar and the two men there.
Shay had her sights set firmly on Duncan; Maisy smiled coyly at Doyle. The poor guys didn’t stand a chance...
Outside the pub, the wind howled with a sudden burst. A few heads turned toward the rattling door. Echo continued to play without a hitch; this was a song she knew well.
Shay leaned over the counter, all but thrusting her breasts at Duncan. Hers were not as impressive as Maisy’s, but she didn’t have a boyish figure, either. Echo couldn’t care less, but really, did the woman have no shame?
The wind picked up and the old building creaked. The wind howled so loudly it drowned out a couple of words of her song. Everyone looked up and back; the door rattled as if an invisible hand was shaking it, trying desperately to get in.
Raintree: Oracle Page 6
