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

by P. G. Forte

  Bad idea, she told herself, still unable to account for the vague sense that she had seen him somewhere before. Her sister deserved to find a nice guy, someone she could depend on. Siobhan couldn’t imagine anything more dependable than a guy who’d take a bullet for you and be able to laugh about it only a few days later. And here she was getting in their way. She should go away now, before she found a way to mess things up. Just ignore the disturbing flare of attraction she was feeling and disappear. After all, even if her little sister didn’t happen to hook up with her fallen hero, she certainly didn’t want him. The last thing Siobhan was looking for was to get involved with anyone.

  “Hello, Siobhan.” A familiar voice spoke up from behind her, and anger surged through her as she recognized its source. Bob Jelaski. Father Bob Jelaski now. Her ex-fiancé-turned priest. Turned manipulative, self-righteous, insufferable creep. “How are you?” Bob asked, unctuously, his eyes agleam with a proprietary light that had no damn business being there.

  “Busy,” she snapped. She felt her own eyes narrow as she glared at him. “What are you doing here?”

  “Did you get everything squared away with Lucy, Bob?” Marsha piped up anxiously. “Because if you’re looking for her, I think she’s over by the buffet.”

  “I saw her,” Bob replied curtly, without turning. “Didn’t Marsha tell you, Vonne? She—”

  “No, she didn’t,” Siobhan interrupted, really hating his use of her family’s nickname for her. “But how silly of me to forget. I don’t care why you’re here. Now, if you’ll all excuse me?”

  She turned on her heel without waiting for an answer, and strode off as fast as she could. Though not nearly fast enough. Her spiked heels sank repeatedly into the sod, threatening, with each step she took, to turn her into a modern day Cinderella.

  The thought was almost tempting – if it could be the guy in the wheelchair who’d retrieve her slipper for her. With her luck, however, it would be Bob who’d try to play hero, as he had once before. And she’d had just about as much of that kind of saving as she could possibly stand in one lifetime.

  Ryan Henderson was conscious of a vague feeling of regret as he watched Siobhan go. Her slim frame was swathed in a dress of some filmy material – smoke and gold – giving her the appearance of a small storm cloud hurrying away. This was the second time he’d seen the woman and both times, within minutes, she’d gone off the rails over some damn thing or other. It was too bad, too, because each time there’d been that one moment when she’d smiled at him, and given him a tiny, tantalizing glimpse of what she could be like if she’d ever just relax.

  The priest sighed. “Well, I tried.”

  Ryan looked at him suspiciously. He’d sounded almost more satisfied than disappointed, but he was turned towards Marsha, and Ryan couldn’t see his face.

  “Any more advice, Marsha?”

  “No, Bob.” Marsha shook her head once, very firmly. “I’m through giving you advice.”

  “Right.” He sighed again, still with that hint of a smile in his voice, and left.

  “How about me?” Ryan asked softly.

  She turned to him in surprise. “You want advice?”

  He shrugged. “Sure. Why not?” She was supposed to be a psychic, after all, wasn’t she? Not that she’d shown a whole lot of precognizance the other day, stumbling into that stake out like she had. He thought about that for a moment. As he understood it, she owned the cabin they’d been keeping under surveillance, and she and the guy who was supposed to have been staying there had been involved in some kind of lovers’ quarrel. That kind of thing would probably dull anyone’s perceptions, he supposed. And on the other hand, she wasn’t the one who’d ended up getting shot, was she? “That sister of yours, is she always so tense?”

  “Siobhan? No, not always.” But she sounded none too sure about it. She stared at him pensively. “I really am sorry about your leg, Ryan. If there’s ever anything I can do—”

  He waved her concern away. “Don’t worry about it. A few weeks, and it’ll be as good as new.”

  Marsha sighed. “I hope you’re right. But I think the rain might give you some trouble.”

  He glanced involuntarily at the sky. It was bright blue, not a cloud to be seen. It would probably be months before the winter storms set in and he was sure his leg would be fine long before then. So much for psychic predictions.

  And so much, too, for the funny feeling he got every time he looked at her sister. The feeling that hers was the face he’d been searching his whole life to find.

  Back to Top

  * * * *

  Chapter One

  * * * *

  January 20th

  St. Agnes’ Eve

  Winter is the greenest of all the seasons along California’s Central Coast. Relentlessly, overwhelmingly, depressingly green. Brightening just barely to yellow at the edges when the sour grass and the pale Douglas irises start to bloom. And wet as well. The rain pours down incessantly. Week after week of it, some years. The wind sweeping the rain across the landscape until every field and empty lot has become a lake, and each street a river. Whipping the tranquil, blue Pacific into a frothy mass of dirty brown waves.

  Until that halcyon moment when Spring at last bursts forth in pink and white blossoms on gray twisted branches, bright against the rain-washed blue of the sky, the world is wet and windy, gloomy and green.

  It was winter now in Oberon, late January. Dark, rainy and cold. Not arctic cold, but damp and persistent and bone chilling. The kind of cold that creeps into your fingers and toes and stays there. This morning, even wrapped around a mug full of hot tea, Siobhan’s fingers were cold.

  She glanced around her. Nine a.m. and the world was as dark as twilight. Seated at an inside table at The Crone’s Nest, her sister’s teashop, she felt like a refugee. A survivor. A castaway on the last, bright island in the ghost gray world.

  Moisture condensing on the windows gave the normally airy space a cozy, enclosed appearance. Bright, yellow light spilled down from the fixtures strung along the high, pressed tin ceiling, but the ceiling itself was lost in the shadows. The concrete columns that supported the ceiling were covered in tattered paper flyers that advertised a variety of workshops, support groups and coming events; they glowed weirdly in the lamplight.

  Marsha and three of her friends shared the table with her. The women’s conversation was a soft counterpoint to the clink of silverware on china and the rattle of rain against the windows. But Siobhan wasn’t really listening to the others’ talk. She inhaled the flowery fragrance of her tea and tried hard to think bright, dry thoughts.

  It was rare for her to take an entire morning off like this. Normally, the wildlife rescue center she ran at Oberon’s marina commanded most of her time and attention. But there were only a handful of animals in her care at the moment, none of them in dire straits, and with the inclement weather keeping most of her volunteer staff away, she’d felt the need for a little human interaction.

  The door to the teashop burst open and a gust of wind propelled yet another of Marsha’s friends into the shop. Scout Patterson pushed the door closed behind her, dumped her umbrella into the bucket beside the door and advanced towards them, shaking back her hood and pulling open the hooks of her jacket as she did.

  “I hate this weather,” Scout snarled as she dropped, damp and disheveled, into an empty chair. “I hate the rain. I hate the cold. I hate the mud. I hate my car. And, oh, God do I hate being pregnant.”

  “Those last few months do seem to last forever.” Marsha nodded sympathetically at her friend, but Lucy Greco-Cavanaugh, cousin to Scout’s husband Nick, looked up from the beekeeper’s catalogue she’d been immersed in and frowned at them both.

  “What are you two talking about?” she snapped. “How can anyone hate being pregnant? I loved being pregnant. I mean, what’s not to like?”

  Scout glowered at her friend. Probably debating the usefulness of suggesting to Lucy that she try not to take it p
ersonally. Completely useless, as Siobhan could have told her. Lucy took everything personally. Especially anything connected to her family.

  “Well, let’s see.” Scout cast a longing look at the large bowl, brimming with foam, that steamed peacefully on the table in front of Lucy. “Among other things, there’s the lack of caffeine. Mornings like this, that seems like a huge concession to have to make.”

  “Oh, big fucking deal. So have a decaf, then,” Lucy grumbled, as she picked up the bowl and sipped at her latte.

  “Or how about some tea?” Siobhan suggested, remembering how badly milk had sat with her stomach during her own pregnancy.

  “Maybe.” Scout glanced doubtfully first at the teapot, and then at Marsha. “What’d you put in it this time?”

  “Mostly green tea,” Marsha said. “Along with lavender and rose petals. And a little spearmint. It’s got some caffeine, not enough to hurt you, but I can make you some without, if you want.”

  “Why don’t you forget the drinks and think about getting some sleep,” Heather Finch, co-owner of the local bookstore advised. She looked at Scout critically. “Have you been up all night or something? ‘Cause girl, you look like hell.”

  “Heather, that’s a terrible thing to say.” Heather’s partner, Ginny Hartman frowned at her. “But you do look a little tired, dear. Have you been having trouble sleeping?”

  “I’m sleeping just fine, thanks,” Scout answered. The stubborn thrust of her chin dared any of them to argue with her.

  “Here, have a pastry.” Marsha pushed the plate of cinnamon rolls toward Scout. “So, what’s wrong with your car?”

  Scout picked up a roll and cautiously took a bite. “What’s wrong with it? Gee, I don’t know. You mean, besides the fact that every time I get in it I can’t help but remember how I nearly died in it last summer?”

  “So? We all nearly died last summer,” Lucy reminded her, taking another sip. “Don’t dwell on stuff like that, you’ll make yourself sick. Have a latté.”

  “A latte. Right.” Scout sighed, and Siobhan found herself feeling caught between sympathy for Scout and agreement with Lucy. Marsha had come close to being killed, too, after all. And, in a way, it had been at least partly Scout’s fault.

  “It hasn’t ever really run right since the accident, and now the roof’s started leaking.” Scout looked down at her stomach ruefully, “Plus, it’s not exactly a practical family car, either.”

  “Get an SUV,” Lucy suggested. “Like mine. They’re not as sporty as your Mustang, but they’re plenty practical.”

  Scout sighed. “Well, I would, except Nick is being a little weird about money right now. He doesn’t seem to want to spend any for some reason.”

  Lucy’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “So? Why would you be spending his money? You’ve got plenty of your own, don’t you?”

  “Yeah.” Scout grimaced. “He’s being a little weird about that, too.”

  “Oh.” Lucy nodded understandingly. “Joey, huh?”

  “I guess.” Scout sighed again, and took another bite of pastry.

  “Joey... what?” Heather asked Lucy. “What’d your brother do now, Luce?”

  “Oh, nothing, really,” Lucy said. “It’s just... well, he did kind of happen to suggest to my father that Nick was maybe marrying Scout for her money. Or that he should have been marrying her for her money, or something. This was a couple of weeks before the wedding. The story got a little confusing in the re-telling.”

  “They usually do, don’t they?” Ginny observed, her brown eyes twinkling over the rim of her cup as she sipped at her tea. “So, who told who what, exactly?”

  “Well, my father told my mother, of course. And then my mother had to go and tell my aunt about it, and my aunt—”

  “Went and told Nick,” Scout said, taking up the tale. “Who blew up at Joey. Again. I have to say, it was not my idea of a fun Christmas.”

  “Yeah, and I was so sorry to have missed it.” Lucy grinned. She pushed her bowl across the table. “Here. One sip ain’t gonna kill you, Scout. A little coffee, a little warm milk, a little foam—where’s the bad? It’s the answer to all of life’s annoying little problems.” She turned to Marsha. “I can’t even remember. What did we used to do, before we had them?”

  “Drugs,” Marsha replied, smiling at her friend. “Drugs. Cigarettes. Alcohol. Stuff like that.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Lucy smiled reminiscently. “That’s right. Those were the days, huh?”

  “Speaking of aunts,” Heather interjected. “Ginny’s Aunt Madeleine paid her another little visit last night.”

  “Well, that’s nice.” Lucy studied Heather’s face for a moment before adding. “Or wasn’t it?”

  “Nice enough, I guess. Considering the woman’s been dead about four years.”

  “Oh, well.” Scout shrugged dismissively, licking cream cheese frosting from the tips of her fingers. “That’s Oberon for you. They don’t call this place Psychic Central for nothing. So, what’d she want?”

  The twinkle in Ginny’s eyes grew even more pronounced. “Strangely enough, she had some pictures of your wedding, dear, and she was just rather curious about who you were. You and some of your guests.”

  “Your dead aunt showed you pictures of me? Jeez. And I thought my dreams were weird.” Scout reached across the table to steal another sip from Lucy’s bowl.

  “Have you been having weird dreams?” Heather’s eyes gleamed with curiosity. “Do tell.”

  “Well, of course she’s having weird dreams, Heather,” Lucy said, as she waved over one of the waitresses and ordered two more lattes – one regular, one decaf. “She’s pregnant, isn’t she? It goes with the territory. But I’m confused. Was it a dream you had, Ginny? Or a vision?”

  “Was it a vision or a waking dream?” Marsha recited musingly, “Do I wake or sleep?”

  “Okay, and that’s a little weird, too.” Lucy turned to stare at her. “Since when do you recite poetry?”

  “Oh, it’s just something someone reminded me of recently.” Marsha shrugged. “But you know, Lucy, dreams, visions, hauntings – it’s a little hard to tell the difference, sometimes. Even when you’re asleep.”

  Her sister’s laugh sounded a little forced, and Siobhan decided she’d had enough of this conversation. She had her own bad dreams, after all – and plenty of them. She didn’t need to hear about anyone else’s. Or about anyone else’s hauntings, either.

  “I gotta get back to work,” she murmured, trying hard to hide her annoyance as she got to her feet. “I’ll see you all later.”

  “Vonne, wait.” Marsha got up as well, her face suddenly bright pink. “Before you go, let me give you your check. You know, for the tickets to that dinner next month?”

  Siobhan shrugged into her jacket while she waited for her sister to get back. The dinner, a fundraiser for a local environmental group was being held at a new winery just outside of town. It was the first such dinner that Marsha had ever expressed any interest in attending, and Siobhan knew it was the influence of her sister’s new boyfriend. Which should be another point in his favor, but although Siobhan liked Sam well enough, she just didn’t get the attraction. He was interesting enough, she supposed, with plenty of money—not like that would ever be the kind of thing Marsha would care about. And he treated her way better than her ex-husband ever had.

  But he was also a good ten years older than she, a recent transplant from the East Coast, and about as cynical as Marsha was naive. Siobhan couldn’t imagine what the two of them thought they had in common. Other than vegetarianism.

  Once again, the image of that handsome young cop who’d been chatting with Marsha at Scout’s wedding came to mind and Siobhan felt a twinge of regret. Whatever had happened to him? Not that she had any interest there herself, of course. It was just... well, if she had been her sister, and someone had given her the choice between the two men—

  “Here you go.” A small smile tugged at the corners of Marsha’s mouth as she held th
e check out to her, and there was a suspicious glint of amusement in her eyes. Siobhan felt herself blushing. She knew that Marsha couldn’t read her mind all of the time, but the possibility was always there just the same. Having a psychic for a sister was not something she’d ever found particularly entertaining.

  “Great.” Siobhan tucked the check into her jacket’s inside pocket, where it was less likely to get wet, and cast around for a distraction. “Oh, Scout. Did you still want me to save a couple of tickets for you and Nick, or had you changed your mind about going?”

  Scout looked up, startled. “Oh, the tickets. Right. I’d forgotten. Yeah, I’m still interested. Why don’t I run a check out to you this afternoon?”

  “Actually, I was going to take a drive up the coast this afternoon. You know, to check out the elephant seal pups? But sure, go ahead, if you want. I left the door unlocked. If no one’s at the center when you stop by, you can just stick it on my desk.” Scout nodded, and as Siobhan turned away she heard her say to Lucy. “You’re all set for the dinner, aren’t you?”

  “Of course,” Lucy replied. “I even talked Dan into buying a tuxedo for it. He looked so good in the one he wore to your wedding, that it got me thinking. I really have to find more excuses to dress the man up.”

  “Well now, that would be a switch, wouldn’t it?” Siobhan heard her sister say teasingly, as she opened the door to be met by a wet blast of rain in her face, “You and Dan looking to get each other dressed, I mean.”

  “Marsha, I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Lucy’s indignant reply cut across the other women’s laughter, as Siobhan pulled the door closed again behind her.

  By the time Siobhan got to her van, her hair was plastered to her head and the legs of her jeans, between the hem of her jacket and the tops of her boots, were soaked through to her skin. She briefly considered stopping back at the center for some dry clothes. But there was not much point in that, she decided as she put the key into the ignition. If she went home, her dog would only start begging to come with her when she headed out again, and she couldn’t take him. Dogs weren’t allowed on any of the beaches where the elephant seals hauled out to have their pups, and Selke was much too old to spend several hours locked in the cold van.