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

by P. G. Forte

  * * * *

  Bob was just hanging up the phone on his desk when she entered his office a few minutes later. “Marsha, what a nice surprise,” he murmured, smiling altogether too warmly.

  Marsha tried to rein in her own smile, before it became a smirk. Would Bob remember this little lie when he made his next confession?

  “Thanks, Bob. It’s nice to see you, too.”

  She settled into one of the chairs across from him, automatically scanning his aura as she did. The habit was so ingrained, she scarcely realized she was doing it. She registered annoyance, trepidation, guilt.

  Interesting. What did he have to feel guilty about? She liked Bob, despite his occasional tendency to be pompous and just a little too sure of himself. And, even with the mess he’d made of his relationships with his sisters, they’d still managed to maintain a cordial friendship over the years. She believed he respected her commitment to spiritual growth, even when he disagreed with her views on the subject. And she had always enjoyed the stimulating religious discussions they occasionally had with each other. What had happened to make him uncomfortable?

  “So, to what do I owe the pleasure?” Bob asked, and Marsha could feel his wariness spike as he waited for her answer. She thought briefly of stalling, letting him sweat it out a little, just to see how much more she could get from him. But she had never been manipulative. At least not in that way.

  “I have some questions, Bob,” she said, at last. “About you and Siobhan. And I need answers.” She sighed inwardly as she felt gates clanging shut in his mind, felt the backwash of energy as it reached out to punch her in the solar plexus.

  A polite, but utterly unconvincing frown creased Bob’s forehead. “I’m afraid I don’t understand,” he said and Marsha felt her patience dissolve. She stared at the worn, Berber carpet that covered the floor as she tried to grab hold of the last vanishing wisps of serenity. But they seemed as substantial as smoke.

  It had not been an easy week, and she’d had just about all the rejection she could stand. She’d expected an argument from Bob – some nonsense about the sanctity of the confessional, perhaps – the logic of which she would quickly demolish, but she hadn’t been expecting this. And she certainly hadn’t come here to beg.

  Damn it, this was one time no one could say she was interfering in something that didn’t concern her. She wasn’t playing God now, or trying to stick her nose in where it didn’t belong. Or any of the other things she’d been accused of, over the years. This time... she had a right to some answers. And most important of all, she had the means to get them.

  That thought stopped her cold. The action she was contemplating went beyond persuasion, beyond petty manipulation – and would probably carry a hefty karmic price tag. But at the moment, she didn’t care. She was in debt already, anyway. What was one more sin on her conscience?

  She took a deep, cleansing breath. Raising her head, she fixed Bob with her most compelling gaze, smiled her most reassuring smile. “Oh, sure you do, Bob,” she said, pitching her voice low and soothing. “Let’s talk about it.”

  * * * *

  Nick felt an unpleasant surge of surprise roll through him as he peered over Ryan’s shoulder. Surprise and unease.

  “Looks like your investigation’s heading in a whole new direction,” he said, indicating the information scrolling down the computer’s screen.

  Ryan shrugged. “Yeah, well... I got to thinking about something Marsha said the other day. Maybe I’ve been looking at this the wrong way, you know? I’m thinking maybe things will look clearer if I step back a bit.”

  “You talking about a step back in time?”

  “Something like that.” Ryan glanced up at him. “You were right, by the way. Siobhan does know more than she’s saying about this. A lot more, I think.”

  Nick nodded. No surprise there. He kinda wondered how long it would take before Ryan reached the same conclusion he had. Not too long at all, apparently. “So, uh... Marsha doesn’t think it’s tied to the center? Why? What’d she say?”

  Ryan sighed. “Shit, man, that’s one scary chick, you know what I’m saying? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I think she’s a real nice lady. And I can’t help but like her. But... hell, Nick, I can’t tell you what that woman was thinking. Not about any of it. And that was something else you were right about, by the way—she did not have a whole lot to say.”

  “Shit. That figures. Terrific, ain’t it?” Nick shook his head, disgusted with the whole rotten business. “Well, I guess we’d better keep an eye on her then. ‘Cause if there’s one thing worse than a psychic who won’t keep her mouth shut, it’s one who won’t tell you what she knows, then butts right in and messes things up.”

  “Yeah, don’t I know it.” Ryan shook his head wearily. He took one hand from the keyboard to massage his injured leg. “You don’t need to remind me what it’s like when that happens.”

  * * * *

  The quilt was more than half done now. Graceful lines of stitches, small and even, were scrolled across its surface like words in a hidden language. Or roads on a map.

  Or runes for a spell, Scout thought as she swallowed another mouthful of the tea she really hadn’t wanted, then returned her mug to the floor beneath her chair. She picked up her needle and looked again at the quilt spread out before of her. For just an instant, the patterns seemed to dance in front of her eyes, and she had to blink two or three times to restore her vision. She shifted in her chair. Her throat was sore, her fingers were swollen, there was a nagging ache in her back high up between her shoulder blades and she felt like she hadn’t slept in months.

  Probably because she hadn’t slept in months – not well, anyway. The last thing she needed was to have her eyes start playing tricks on her. She glanced down at the square she’d been stitching and sighed. Five circles of gold lame, a star stitched into the center of each one, glittered amid a mosaic of oddly shaped pieces of red and blue velvet. The Five of Pentacles. A card that signaled a time of physical adjustments, financial anxiety, a realignment of priorities. Lovely. And definitely not the kind of thing she wanted to be thinking about on the day before Valentine’s Day.

  Maybe one of the other women would like to change seats with her? No, probably not.

  Valentine’s Day. Scout felt her spirits lift a little as she thought about that. She knew Nick was planning something big. That was clear as day, although for the life of her she couldn’t figure out what he had in mind. Whatever it was, however, she doubted whether it could top the surprise she had in store for him. It had taken her a long time to come up with an idea guaranteed to take his breath away, but she was pretty sure she’d done it.

  He’d been moody lately; preoccupied and uncommunicative, and she’d had more than enough of it. When she thought of all the wasted years they’d spent apart—years when she’d despaired of ever seeing him again – it made her crazy to think either of them would take a single day for granted.

  She knew how precious time could be, how fast and fleeting. And so should he. Now that they were finally together again, there was no way she was going to let either of them forget how lucky they were. Not for a minute.

  So, if Nick needed a wakeup call, then that’s just what he’d get. In spades. And if he needed someone to open his eyes to what was right in front of his face, she was just the person to do it.

  This would be their very first Valentine’s Day together. She would damn sure make it memorable.

  “What are you looking so smug about?” Lucy asked, her voice breaking into Scout’s thoughts.

  Scout looked at her friend for a moment. Whatever she told Lucy was sure to get back to Nick. She shrugged. “Smug? I have no idea what you mean. I was just thinking about Valentine’s Day. What are you and Dan going to do, by the way?”

  Lucy smiled slowly. The color rose in her cheeks. “We’re having a picnic. He doesn’t know it yet, but I’m going to recreate the first meal we ate together. You know, all the same foods and everyth
ing?”

  Sewing came to a halt as all around the quilt, as everyone’s eyes focused on Lucy. Scout noticed that only Marsha didn’t look surprised.

  “You still remember what the two of you ate?” Heather asked. “And that was how long ago?”

  “Almost nineteen years,” Lucy answered, her voice matter of fact as she continued stitching. “And of course I remember. That’s not the kind of think you’d forget, is it?”

  Absently, Scout’s eyes tracked the path of Lucy’s needle. The square she was working was elegantly simple; a field of silver stars gleaming against a background of delicate ebony silk. The Star. A difficult card to interpret, especially in this case, where it was impossible to tell if the image was reversed or not. A card that hinted at approaching difficulties and a need for balance.

  Heather resumed sewing. “Yes, it is. It’s exactly the kind of thing I’d forget. I have a hard time remembering what I had for breakfast this morning.”

  “Ahh, but you’re not a Greco,” Marsha said, unable to resist teasing Lucy just a little. “And Heather, you know how much pride they take in remembering things that the rest of us would just as soon forget.”

  Laughter rippled around the table and Lucy shot her a quelling glance, but Marsha just smiled. It was good to be here, she thought, it was good to be surrounded by the warmth and camaraderie of her friends. She’d been feeling cold and drained since her encounter this morning with Bob. As she could have predicted she would.

  It was tiring this business of hypnotizing people without their knowledge or consent. Soothing and entrancing them until you could ease your way past their defenses was a slow, laborious process. And the toll it took on her conscience was enormous.

  No matter how she chose to justify her actions, she did not feel good about herself this evening. Especially since the information she’d retrieved from Bob, intensely private and immensely sad, seemed to have no direct bearing on Siobhan’s current problems.

  “So, tell us Lucy, what was it that made this meal so memorable?” Heather asked.

  Marsha didn’t need to see the blush that heated Lucy’s cheeks to feel her agitation. A small amount of teasing went a long way with Lucy. It was time to take pity on her friend. A little distraction wouldn’t hurt, she thought as she turned to Scout. “So, what are you planning for tomorrow night, Scout?”

  Scout turned wide, startled eyes her way and Marsha blinked at the sudden flood of energy that erupted out of nowhere, and then sank just as quickly back into obscurity. Scout’s aura abruptly shielded itself.

  Chagrined, Marsha realized that her inner turmoil had caused her to miss something she would ordinarily have sensed. Scout was hiding something.

  “Oh, well... you know I’d won that spa weekend at the silent auction, right?” Scout answered, her face a mask of calm serenity. “Lucy and Dan agreed to look after Kate for us, so I figured this was the perfect opportunity to cash it in.”

  “Ooh, Scout.” Ginny beamed at her. “An entire weekend at the Old Coastanoan? How perfectly lovely.”

  “Very romantic.” Heather nodded approvingly.

  Heather was certainly right about that, Marsha thought as she busied herself with her stitching. The Old Coastanoan was where she and Sam had gone on their first ‘real’ date, and it had been incredibly romantic.

  They had reservations to go there again tomorrow night for dinner. A bittersweet melancholy settled over her as she thought about it. She’d never really had what anyone would call a romantic Valentine’s Day, she hoped this would be the first.

  She was pretty sure it would be. Sam was the most romantic man she’d ever known, and she was certain he would do everything in his power to make tomorrow night perfect for her. They would have a lovely, romantic dinner, and then maybe go for a lovely, romantic walk on the beach...

  It would be dark, with just the faintest smudge of a quarter moon glowing through the fog. The air would be sultry and the sand would be soft, and just before they reached the stairs leading back up from the beach, he’d stop her.

  He’d take hold of her arm, perhaps, and gently turn her around to face him. His arms would pull her close. So close she’d feel the muscles of his chest, the beating of his heart. His moustache would tickle her lips. His mouth would taste of wine. And when he kissed her, all the passion she’d been holding in check would spill forth, and she’d have to cling to him to keep from falling.

  Her head would be spinning as he pulled away, as he ended the kiss with a shattered gasp for breath, as he rested his forehead for just a moment against her own and whispered, “Let’s go home.”

  They’d climb the stairs in a haze of heat. Leaning into each other just a little. Touching each other with soft, surreptitious, almost accidental brushes that would keep the fires burning during the long drive back to her house, and then—

  And then she’d make him leave. Because her sons would be there. And because, as long as they were, she would have to put their needs ahead of her own.

  She nearly ran the needle into her fingertip as she thought about the phone conversation she’d had earlier that afternoon with Alex.

  “I don’t know how much more clear I can make this, Marsha. I simply cannot take the boys this weekend. Surely, it hasn’t been so long that you can’t remember what it’s like, with a new baby in the house?”

  Her fingers had tightened on the phone cord. Oh, she remembered all right. She was just surprised that he did. Their children had always seemed to come in a poor second with Alex—even as babies.

  No, not their children, she thought; her children. Not for the first time she wondered how much of Alex’s seeming indifference, was due to a perverse desire to make the children pay for what she’d done to him?

  “Alex, it would only be for a day or so,” she pleaded. “Besides, the boys need their father. Especially now. They need to know that you’re still willing to be a part of their lives.”

  His sigh was loud and lengthy, and his voice as he ended the call, dripped boredom. “Really, love, that refrain has become quite tiresome. Come up with a new one, can’t you?”

  Love. As always, the irony of the diminutive struck like a blow to the heart, reminding her of those terrible days, just prior to their divorce, when she’d tried so hard to keep her marriage alive. For all the wrong reasons. And in all the wrong ways. When neither of them had been in love.

  She flinched as she finally succeeded in piercing her finger with the needle. She stuck her finger in her mouth, to avoid getting blood on the quilt, and sucked on it as she stared absently at the square she had been working.

  The Wheel of Fortune had never been one of her favorite cards. It spoke of the transitory, ever-changing nature of life. On the quilt in front of her it was represented by a Ferris wheel.

  Strange. She’d dreamed of a Ferris wheel just the other night. She and Sam had been riding one, and as they approached the top, he’d pointed out a star to her. It was one she’d never noticed before, in a constellation she could not quite recognize.

  A pale, impossibly pink point of light, it seemed to lie almost within her grasp, as it glimmered against the blue velvet of the night. But even as she reached for it, the car they were riding in began to descend, and it was lost from view.

  And that, she thought, as she took up her needle again and began to sew, was precisely why the Ferris wheel had never been one of her favorite rides. For her, it always seemed to stop the longest when she was on the bottom, when where she really wanted to stay was in the rarified air at the top of the wheel. Up where the breath of heaven could be felt in the wind that blew across your face. So close enough to perfect, you could almost touch the stars.

  Back to Top

  * * * *

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  * * * *

  There has to be some mistake. Siobhan’s hands trembled as she returned the phone to its base. It was late Friday afternoon. She stared at it for several minutes while she ran the conversation over again in he
r mind. She’d called the bio lab to find out what was taking so long with her test results, only to find that nothing was taking so long. The results had come back days ago. Ryan had gotten them and told her nothing.

  She pushed away from her desk and headed towards the infirmary, Ryan’s dog following along behind her. It had to be a mistake. But she knew it wasn’t. Ray had been very clear, very explicit. And more than a little upset to learn she hadn’t ceded any authority for what was happening at the center over to Ryan. But not nearly as upset as she was.

  Was he playing games with her now? Could the second die-off in the tank have somehow been his fault? Was that why he’d said nothing about the results?

  But no, she couldn’t start thinking things like that. That particular brand of paranoia had always been a weakness of hers. She knew better than most the seductive power of the imagination.

  Hope was far too ductile a substance. It could be pulled and twisted and bent. Or stretched fine and taut as a wire garrote. It could be beaten flat, and it would still remain intact. In the end, it was your mind that broke around it.

  The bobcat prowled restlessly in her cage while Siobhan prepared its food. She’d already made arrangements to have the cat transported soon to another facility where it could be rehabilitated and released. She would be relieved when it was gone, because that was another situation where she didn’t trust her own judgment.

  How many times had she looked at the creature in the last week and wondered if it wasn’t showing signs of renewed weakness. Of an inexplicable failure to thrive that signaled it would have to be put down. How many times had she found herself wondering whether the cat had not gotten too used to humans to be successfully released. Or, too violent, too unpredictable. Too dangerous to allow it to live.

  How many times had she simply wanted to kill it, and then looked for reasons to justify what she knew in her heart to be wrong?