Oberon Boxed Set (Books 1-3) Welcome to Oberon

by P. G. Forte

  “Now, now, love, you know I always have your best interests at heart. If you’re really determined to make a fool of yourself, I guess there’s no help for it. Still… you really ought to warn him, you know. It’s only fair.”

  “Alex, so help me, if you say another word, I’ll—”

  He put up a hand to forestall her. “No need for threats. I’m going.” But at the door he turned back, unable to resist throwing just one more little knife. “I only wish I could be on hand to see the expression on his face if you ever do get naked with him. I’m sure it will be priceless.”

  Marsha slammed the door shut behind him. Really, the man was despicable. Transparent as glass and twice as cutting. He had her best interests at heart? Ha. When had that ever been the case?

  She sank down on the couch and put her head in her hands. She felt wrung out and weary as she contemplated wreckage of what she’d once believed could be a happy marriage. It hadn’t always been like that between them, had it? Surely, there had been a time... but she could no longer remember what it felt like not to be at war with him. Nor could she remember which had come first. Had she wrapped herself in a layer of protective energy as a defense against his jibes and taunts and coldness? Or had he resorted to the only weapons he could find in order to pierce through her indifference?

  Alex was like the wind in the old fable where the sun and the wind did battle to determine who was the more powerful. The more fiercely he attacked, the more tightly she clung to her defenses. It would take the heat of real love, real tenderness to make her lower her guard now. And that was something Alex would never be capable of providing, although he would probably always insist upon a claim to her time and her emotions that he no longer had any right to.

  She only wished she could have figured some of this out before she had cast the spell that had bound them together. Love spells were notoriously risky propositions at the best of times, something she’d learned too late. It would have been a bad idea, even if they were in love with each other. But as it was, she’d only ended up hurting them both.

  * * *

  The sunset tonight was even more exquisite than the ones that had gone before it. A silent storm of color raged in the western sky – everything from lemon to aubergine, overlaid with swaths and smears and splashes in shades of amethyst, apricot, coral, persimmon and rose. And at the heart of it all, the fiery orange ball that was the setting sun. Sam found himself feeling a little nostalgic as he sat on the back stoop and watched the play of light. How many more of these sunsets would he be here to witness? Not too many, he thought, in all likelihood. Just this afternoon he had put together the finishing touches on the evidence he needed to nail Harry’s no-good, fraudulent hide to the wall. Now, all he needed was the chance to get out of Oberon and take everything down to LA. Except... he wasn’t sure how easy that would be. The last few days, he’d gotten the nasty feeling that Nick might have been playing him like a fish; giving out just enough line to let him run, and all the time waiting for the moment when he’d reel him back in.

  Maybe it had to do with the way the cop had looked at him when he’d explained how several of the files in Paige’s computer appeared to have been corrupted – the explanation he’d cooked up to explain the deleted references to himself, and to the emails she’d sent to New York.

  Or maybe it had been the panic attacks he’d experienced. Times when he’d felt like a mouse only centimeters away from stumbling into a trap. Attacks that seemed to coincide a little too well with Nick’s dropping by to see how he was getting on, judging from the fact that every time he came back, one of the other cops always remarked how he’d just missed him.

  He’d been on the verge, several times, of asking Marsha if the amulet she had given him could possibly be acting as a sort of early warning system, alerting him to danger. But he’d been too afraid to risk asking. Afraid she’d correctly intuit his secret, if he did.

  But thinking of Marsha was not a good idea right now. In fact, he’d come to the reluctant conclusion that the less he saw of her, or talked to her, or thought about her from here on in, the better it would be for both of them. He’d had dinner at her house again on Wednesday night. He’d spent a couple of hours there, showing Frank tricks with the computer, trading incredibly lame jokes with Jesse, and generally basking in the whole family atmosphere. And then Thursday, he’d stopped by her shop again for breakfast.

  But he hadn’t seen her since, although he’d been up half the night last night resisting the urge to call her. He told himself that he just wanted to see if she would call him this time, but he knew all along she wouldn’t. She’d made it clear, over and over again, that she was perfectly happy to keep their relationship platonic. Even worse, she seemed completely indifferent to the hunger that had been chewing away at him all week.

  In the sky above him, the pale moon was just beginning to show – just a ghost image as yet, but whole, and perfectly rounded. A full moon. Well, that figured, didn’t it? No wonder he felt like throwing back his head and commencing to howl.

  He had gotten to his feet and was heading inside to pour himself a glass of wine when the phone rang. He fought down the thrill of hope that surged through him as he answered it.

  “Sam? Hi, it’s Marsha.” She sounded nervous, unhappy, on edge.

  “Hi,” He cradled the phone against his shoulder as he eased the cork out of the wine bottle and poured himself a glass. Of course it was her. How could she possibly think he wouldn’t recognize her voice? “What’s up, angel? Catch any mice yet?”

  “I um, what? Oh.” She giggled slightly. “No, but I... I do sorta need to ask a favor.”

  “What do you need?” he asked, swallowing a small sip of wine while his mind played with half a dozen fantasies of what she might conceivably want from him. Things he’d be more than happy to give her. But her answer, as usual, was galaxies removed from where his mind had been headed.

  “Well, tonight is Mabon, that’s one of the fall harvest festivals, and the thing is I— well, Celeste and I... see, there’s a little grove out behind the cabin where—” She paused, and drew a shaky breath before continuing. “I was wondering if you’d mind too terribly if I came out and performed a little ceremony there? I wouldn’t need to go near the cabin, or anything, and I’d only be an hour or so, but—”

  Bad idea. His rational mind tried to warn him. How much more could he take? But his need to see her overpowered everything else. “Sure. Of course. No problem,” he answered quickly, before practicality could come up with a valid reason to refuse. Hell, he was a big boy. He could handle himself around her. Besides, in the complicated pattern of favor and counter-favor they’d been weaving between them all week, he was pretty sure he owed her.

  “Really? I… okay, thanks.”

  He smiled at the relief in her voice as he hung up the phone, and then filled the time before her arrival hiding the evidence he’d amassed on Harry, as well as the hard copy he’d made of the missing files from the computer at the station. He disconnected the hard-drive, too. Just to be on the safe side, and then went to take another long, cold shower. And it did help – a little.

  * * *

  Daylight was dying in the air when Marsha arrived at the cabin. It was still a little early in the day for a full moon ceremony, but she just couldn’t handle the trip both ways in the dark. It would be hard enough driving back, but her need to come here tonight – to ground herself and find peace and balance – had overwhelmed even the fear she harbored of being on the road at night.

  It was Alex’s fault. Try as she might to forget about the scene with him earlier this evening, she had not been able to let go of the nasty, painful emotions he had stirred up. Grief and loneliness had roiled around inside her all evening, pushing her ever closer to the edge of a seemingly bottomless well of despair. Even after all this time, even after all her vows of indifference, he still could get to her. She was still tied to him with emotional threads she had woven herself – with spells
and prayers and incantations. Threads she couldn’t seem to sever no matter how badly she might want to.

  Never again, she swore, taking a couple of slow, deep breaths. Never again would she make herself so vulnerable. Never again would she allow herself to become so dependent on anyone that the fear of losing them would lead her to make the kinds of mistake she had made with Alex.

  Never again would she use magic to hold someone – she’d seen firsthand the damage it could do.

  As she stepped out of the van, she was practically knocked over by swells of music – lovely and otherworldly – pouring from the cabin. She wandered around to the back, following the sounds; seduced, not just by the beauty of the music, but by the purity of the tenor voice, singing words in a language she did not recognize, but which moved her almost to tears, nonetheless.

  As she rounded the corner, she saw Sam sitting on the back step, eyes closed, lost in the music – like Merlin enchanted by Nimue. Reluctant to break the spell, she waited, watching him, as the music eddied and swirled about them both, rising at last to a sweeping crescendo, before ending almost too abruptly.

  Sam opened his eyes and stared at her for a long time without speaking. She was startled into immobility by the intensity of his gaze. After a moment, he relaxed back against the doorframe with a sigh and veiled his eyes again; as if he were shutting out the sight of her.

  “Hey,” he said, breaking the silence at last. His voice sounded harsh, as if it had not been used in days.

  “Hi. That music... what is it?”

  “Nessun Dorma,” he answered, not opening his eyes. “Puccini, of course. It’s from Turandot.”

  “Oh. It’s very beautiful.”

  “Yes, it is.” His mouth quirked upwards in a wry smile. “And, believe it or not, I usually find it very calming.”

  “But not tonight?” she asked curiously.

  “No. Not tonight.”

  She was suddenly aware of the rigidity in his posture, the tension that shimmered in the air around him. He didn’t want her here, she felt certain of it. Disappointment pressed on her heart with a crushing weight.

  “I-I’m sorry,” she stammered. “I know I’m probably interrupting your evening, coming here like this and... I’ll be out of here as quickly as I can. I’ll try to stay out of your way and—”

  “Marsha,” he interrupted her, his eyes open again, the ghost of a smile flitting across his face. “You’re not going to be in my way tonight. I promise.” He got to his feet and stood, irresolute. “So, a Mabon ceremony, huh? Out there in the glade?” His glance strayed to the ring of trees at the back of the property. “Sounds like fun.”

  “Yes. Well, no, not fun exactly. It’s a spiritual ceremony, and...” Her voice trailed off as another thought struck her. Oh, dear heaven, he wasn’t going to ask to watch, was he? She’d feel guilty turning him down, but at the same time, there was no way she could let him stay.

  “Oh. I suppose you’ll want some privacy?”

  “Yes,” she breathed gratefully.

  He nodded and pulled open the door. “Okay, well, let me know if you ah, need anything.” He flashed her a wry smile as he disappeared into the cabin.

  “I will. Thanks,” she whispered to the empty air. She stared at the closed door for a long moment before heading back to the van for the supplies she’d brought with her.

  * * *

  Sam watched from the window as she walked across the lawn. She was barefoot, wearing a long, hooded robe of dark green velvet, and she carried a rather cumbersome looking worn leather bag.

  In his way? Only in his dreams, he thought ruefully. He took another sip of wine. It slid, smooth and warm, toward his stomach, doing nothing to ease the clawing hunger that had returned to grip him the moment he’d opened his eyes to find her standing right in front of him.

  She must have changed in the van, he realized, as his eyes followed her into the glade, and he’d bet any amount of money she was wearing nothing at all under that robe. Her hair was loose on her shoulders, and she looked even more like a creature of myth and fantasy than usual. Even though he knew it was the last thing he should be doing, he still could not resist torturing himself by continuing to watch her.

  * * *

  When she reached the glade, Marsha put down her bag and glanced around her. The grass felt cool and slick against the soles of her feet, and the energy in the little glade seemed to reach out and embrace her. She could almost hear the music Sam had been listening to earlier – as though it were still echoing in her head. It was so perfect for the evening, she thought, remembering that in certain Celtic traditions this month was called The Singing Moon. She nearly laughed aloud when she recalled one of the other names she had heard for it – this one from a Native American tradition. The Ducks Fly Moon. Sam would get a kick out of that. She’d have to remember to tell him.

  Crouching in the grass, she began to remove the tools from her bag: Her drum and a large crystal cluster, which she placed in the North. Her feathered wand and the smudge stick of sage, cedar and sweetgrass in the East. Her pipe and tobacco, and a small lantern in the South. A silver bowl, partially filled with water from the creek, and her conch shell horn in the West. And in the center of the circle, on a flat piece of granite Celeste had long ago embedded in the grass, a small, iron cauldron.

  Finally, she was ready to begin. She put the bag down, outside the boundaries of the circle she was about to cast and –ignoring the hairs rising at the back of her neck, resisting the urge to glance over at the cabin – she removed her robe, and dropped it on top of the bag. Skyclad, she re-entered the circle, maybe a little more aware than usual of her nakedness, but determined to put every other thought out of her mind, except for the work at hand. Picking up the matches and the smudge stick, she set to work purifying herself, and the space around her.

  * * *

  Sam reclined in the window seat, as the shadows deepened in the little grove. Marsha moved about in the glade with the same unselfconscious dignity he had noticed on Sunday, as though she had merged, in some fashion, with the place itself. He reached for the wine bottle and poured himself another glass, scarcely taking his eyes from the window for an instant. The sight before him was far too compelling. He was familiar with the popular wisdom that eavesdroppers seldom learn anything to their advantage apparently the same held true for voyeurs.

  He had been curious about the ceremony she was performing. But satisfying his curiosity carried a steeper price than he’d guessed. He knew the sight of her, bathed in moonlight, would be with him for a long, long time, and would bring him little peace.

  He wondered if he had time, before she was finished, for another shower?

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  * * * *

  Chapter Twenty Two

  * * * *

  Marsha extinguished the flame in the cauldron, and sat back on her heels. She felt so much better now. Clearer and stronger. More peaceful. But as she returned to ordinary consciousness, she realized she was also incredibly cold. She shrugged on her robe and worked quickly to repack her tools in their bags. Her toes were numb by the time she got back to the van. She was too cold to even think about changing. She’d just drive home like this, with the heater on full blast, and maybe hop into a warm shower when she got there. She thought longingly of the Japanese soaking tub in Celeste’s bathroom, but she certainly couldn’t ask Sam for the use of that, too.

  She could, however, tell him she was leaving. And thank him. It was only polite.

  He answered the door quickly, looking just a little disheveled, combing his hands through his damp hair as if he had just stepped out of the bath.

  “Oh, hi, Sam. I—” She broke off, dismayed to realize she’d once again disturbed him. He seemed even less happy to see her than before. “I uh, I just wanted to let you know that I was going. And also to say thank you for letting me come over on such short notice and all.”

  “I told you, it’s no problem,” he answered promptly, but he frow
ned as he said it and his eyes were hard as they scanned her face. “Don’t you want to come inside? Maybe to get dressed or something? I figured you must be getting cold – I made tea.”

  She shook her head. “That sounds great. But no. Thanks. I’m fine. I’ve already disturbed you enough, for one evening. Besides, I really need to get started back now.” A gust of wind blew around the corner of the cabin and she could not suppress a shiver.

  “You’re not fine. You’re freezing,” he said fiercely, rubbing his hands up and down her arms. “Just come in and get warm. The tea’s all ready – I made a whole pot of it, and – maybe you’d like me to light a fire?”

  “I really shouldn’t,” she murmured, but it was a lost cause. She could have resisted both the tea and the fire, if only he hadn’t touched her. But the feel of his hands on her again after... how many days had it been, now?… so warm and strong, and reassuring somehow, had ignited a need she hadn’t even known she had.

  A need for friendship. She was sure it was no more than that. But all the same, not so easy to pass up. “I guess, maybe just for a few minutes...”

  A sudden smile lit his eyes as he took her hand and drew her inside. She shivered at the sound of the door closing behind her—like a trap. She looked around her. The cabin was as warm and snug and welcoming as always, but there was a definite difference tonight. In the week Sam had been here, he had certainly made his mark on the place. Nothing she could really point to, just a new, and altogether undeniable charge in the atmosphere. A very male charge.

  Suddenly, accepting his invitation to stay for tea seemed like a gigantic mistake. The pull he exerted on her was far too irresistible. Sooner or later she was bound to do something unforgivably stupid. Like give in to temptation. She shivered again, not from the cold this time, but he couldn’t know that. He saw it and frowned, and worked all the faster to get the fire lit.