Myth and Magic

by Mae Clair

  “There’s always a motive with you, isn’t there?” Galen prepared to leave. “Don’t screw this up.”

  Typical.

  “I don’t tell you how to run BI, Galen. Don’t tell me how to do my job.”

  “Like you’d listen anyway,” Merlin countered.

  Caith flipped up his middle finger.

  “You two are worse than my twins.” Aren shook his head. “Do everyone a favor and get it together before Sunday. If you act like this in front of Mom, she’ll choke you both. Come on, Veronica.” Standing, he took her arm, plainly prepared to follow Galen from the room. “I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”

  * * * *

  Caith tugged his tie free as they left. Might as well get his beef with Merlin out in the open. “Veronica’s not interested in me if that’s what this is about.”

  Merlin stretched, propping his feet on the chair beside him. He folded his hands in his lap. “Obvious. Why look twice when she has me?”

  As they’d grown older, it had been hard to tell when Merlin was playing a conceited ass or being a conceited ass. Caith chose to overlook the comment.

  “Why did you leave glue in my bedroom?”

  “Huh?” Merlin raised a brow. “You want to translate that, Investigator Lairen?”

  With effort, Caith controlled his temper. Beyond the closed door, he heard murmuring and guessed Aren, Galen, and Veronica conversed on the other side. “At the house, in my old bedroom. Someone put tubes of model glue in the nightstand, then rigged the drawer so they’d split apart when I opened it.”

  Merlin shrugged indifferently. “What? No plastic trucks?”

  “Don’t play games with me.” Shoving his chair back, Caith leaned over the table, splaying his hands on top. “You know damn well you’re the only person I ever told about”—he ground his teeth, tripping over the words—“what that smell does to me.”

  “That’s the price of confidence.” Merlin leaned forward until his face was only inches from Caith’s. “And how would I know you were going to the house, Mr. Detective? The last place I’d expect a chummy family guy like you to go?”

  Caith swore. He paced to the opposite side of the room where he braced one hand against the wall. Through the window, he could see the parking lot below. Overhead, the sky had begun to clear, charcoal gray receding before quiet blue. Emerging sunlight danced off the windshields of countless cars aligned in neat, orderly rows. “No one else knows about the glue, Merlin.”

  His brother gave a long-suffering sigh. “I hate to break it to you, Caithelden, but I don’t give a shit. You don’t rank high enough for me to waste my time planting glue. Maybe you should start thinking about who wanted to get you to the house in the first place. About who knew you’d be there.”

  “No one knew I’d be there.”

  “Maybe.” Dropping his feet to the floor, Merlin stood. “Then again, maybe you pissed off a really nasty ghost with a grudge.”

  Caith looked over his shoulder. “Aren’t you a little old to be putting stock in stories about Warren Barrister?”

  Merlin smiled thinly. “Who said anything about Barrister? I was talking about Trask.”

  Caith let the remark wash over him as Merlin left the room. He didn’t understand his brother’s anger now any more than he had twelve years ago. The more biting his comments grew, the more confused Caith became. There’d been times during the last summer before he’d gone away that they’d been free and easy with one another, but more often than not Merlin had been distant. After Trask’s death, they’d drifted apart. When Caith left for college, nothing but silence followed. Somehow, someway, it all came back to Trask.

  Caith carried the thought with him as he left BI and headed for the town library. He found what he was looking for in the local interest section, a book combining the history and myth of the Barrister House. He scanned it briefly, then drove to the elementary school to pick up Derrick and his nephews. He smiled broadly at the sight of his son wearing Trask’s old ball cap as Derrick climbed into the back seat along with Noah and Matt. Earlier, Caith had adjusted the band on the hat for a better fit, and Derrick deemed it one of his favorite possessions. With the three boys chattering non-stop about school, the impending hayride, and Coldcreek’s trick-or-treat scheduled for the following week, Caith headed for Aren’s farm.

  “Dad, can we take Ron to the hayride with us?” Derrick asked.

  Surprised, Caith flicked a glance in the rearview mirror. “You want Ron to go?”

  “Sure. I like Ron.” The three boys shared a secret glance, and Derrick grinned. “You like Ron, too, don’t you Dad?”

  Muffled giggling came from the rear. Apparently, Derrick had been conspiring with his cousins, sharing the tale of catching his father and Veronica nearly kissing. “Yeah, partner, I like Ron, too.”

  More giggling, and this time Caith smiled. It didn’t hurt to have Derrick on his side playing matchmaker, no matter how clumsy the attempts. Veronica might decline a date with him, but he doubted she would with his son. That might make him unethical, but he needed all the help he could get. By the time he pulled in the driveway at Aren’s farm, the boys were once again discussing the hayride and trick-or-treat.

  Preparations had advanced considerably since his last visit. The fields surrounding the house had become graveyards and shadowy lairs for zombies and ghouls. Strategic lighting, coupled with an endless array of props and false fronts, transformed the picturesque farm into a Halloween extravaganza. Volunteering to handle most of the special effects, the high school drama club came equipped with fog-making machines and an assortment of ghoulish makeup and costumes. Galen’s seventeen-year-old son, Balin, a tall, blond-haired boy, flashed a grin at Caith’s arrival.

  “Uncle Caith!” Although he’d lost touch with Galen over the years, Caith had continued to send his nephew cards and gifts on birthdays and holidays. For his part, Balin had visited a few times when in Boston with school friends. “Are you dressing up tomorrow night, too?”

  “I’m just here to help,” Caith said. The thought of dressing up in costume made him cringe.

  Spying him from across the field, Aren waved him down, then immediately put him to work. Shortly afterward, rain set in, limiting their accomplishments. Derrick, Matt, and Noah raced through the house, ready to explode, tracking mud across the floors, dancing rings around the adults. Galen showed up briefly, muttered his support, then left before anyone could coerce him into helping. A half hour later, Caith’s mother and father arrived.

  Derrick went from excited to ballistic, leading his grandfather out back, making sure he knew every scrap of knowledge Derrick had acquired about the event. Caith stood on the rear porch, listening to the rain patter overhead, quietly watching his son and father interact. Easy and effortless in each other’s company, it was evident they’d already formed a tight bond.

  Regret tugged at him. He’d once shared the same kind of relationship with his father, but it was too late to go back now. Tragedy, time, and bitterness had destroyed that closeness. After a while he pulled Aren aside, and together they went to the barn to check the supply of phosphorescent paint. It didn’t surprise him to find a small amount missing.

  Aren gave a low whistle. “So someone’s using my stuff to cause problems for BI?”

  Caith squatted beside the paint Aren had stored under a tarp. The barn smelled musty, still thick with the pungent odors of horse, hay, and oiled leather. Aren kept no farm animals, but the smell was as much a part of the structure as the packed earth beneath their feet. “When’s the last time you checked this?”

  “When the shipment came. I signed for it and stored it back here. I didn’t think I was stashing gold or anything I needed to padlock.”

  “I want the name and phone number of the company you bought this from.” Caith stood. “The amount that’s missing is too small to sustain anything long term. Whoever took it probably used it to get started, then would’ve had to o
rder more.”

  Aren frowned. “Caith, the drama club got a huge supply two weeks ago. I gave them my contact at Otherworldly Props, then funded the order. They’re using it at the hayrides.”

  Caith glanced aside at the sound of footsteps in time to see his father enter the barn.

  “Aren.” The older man shook rain from his coat and hair. “Melanie’s looking for you. The kids are having problems with the fog machine.”

  “I’m coming.” Aren turned back to Caith. “How about prints? Can you lift anything?”

  “It’s doubtful. The kids have been playing in here, and you’ve had people in and out for weeks planning the hayride. It’d be like trying to isolate a print on a public door knob.”

  “Do what you can.” Flashing a parting grin, Aren jogged from the barn.

  Caith turned back to the paint, tugged the tarp down, and secured it at the bottom. A long pause preceded the tread of footsteps behind him.

  His father cleared his throat. “Derry’s a good kid. I appreciate you letting me see him.”

  “You could have seen him anytime. All you had to do was come to Boston.” Stubbornly, Caith chipped at the gap between them, doing his best to broaden the chasm. God forbid they should ever bridge it. Standing, he stuffed his hands in his pockets and turned. “I want you to have a good relationship with Derrick, but that doesn’t mean anything has to change between us.”

  Stuart’s eyes glinted with frost. “You wouldn’t want that, would you?” Beyond the open door, rain drummed the earth, echoing in the near empty shell of the barn. “You’d rather carry around all that anger than sort through the hostility.”

  Caith chuckled bitterly. “Since when did you decide to play peacemaker?”

  “Since you let me see my grandson. I don’t want to trip over all that bullshit you’re carrying around every time I want to see Derry. I want a healthy relationship with him.”

  “What about a relationship with your son?” Caith couldn’t keep the acid from his voice. Why the hell did it have to feel like he’d been punched in the gut? Before his father could answer, he shoved past him and stalked from the barn. If he had any doubt why he still had a job, his father made it clear.

  Because of Derrick.

  He exhaled. He supposed he should be grateful, but gratitude came with the high price of swallowing his pride. A flicker of temptation made him consider dropping the case, but the thought was short-lived. He’d be failing Aren and Veronica, and despite how he felt about his father, Derrick idolized the man. He wouldn’t use the kid as a bargaining chip.

  Which meant he was screwed.

  Deciding to call it a night, he rounded up Derrick, intending to head back to the lodge. His son, however, had other ideas. With all of the hayride prep going on, he begged to stay overnight. Reluctant at first, Caith talked it over with Aren, then eventually agreed.

  It was after ten by the time he returned to the lodge, and most of Stone Willow’s guests had retired for the night. In an effort to get his mind off the ugly encounter with his dad, Caith retreated to the enclosed porch. Outside, darkness enveloped the woods, broken only by patches of shell-white moonlight. Switching on a small lamp, he settled into a chair with the book he’d picked up on Warren Barrister.

  Veronica had yet to return, missing since six o’clock when she’d left for dinner with Merlin. Ever since his brother had mentioned their plans at BI, Caith had inwardly seethed over the date. The thought of the woman he desired in the arms of his brother was more frustrating than his encounter with his father.

  Annoyed, he tried to distract himself with the book.

  Written in the early 1930s by a local historian, it detailed the legend of Barrister House in cumbersome language. Caith found a single reference halfway through the first chapter that made him pause:

  There is some debate whether Warren Barrister was a Tolar, but most historians of merit discount it as unsubstantiated myth.

  The next paragraph branched into Barrister’s arrival in America at the age of twenty-seven from Great Britain. A tedious account of how he’d established himself in the community followed. Wading through the thick prose, Caith found his mind wandering.

  He glanced at his watch. Ten-twenty-five. Irritated, he flipped a page.

  Breakfast and dinner. Veronica might as well have spent the entire day with Merlin. How much could two people have to talk about anyway? Swearing softly, he rubbed his eyes. Merlin probably had his hands all over her, touching, kissing, doing everything Caith wanted to do.

  “Damn.” He tossed the book onto the coffee table. He had hoped when she’d kissed him at the Coldcreek Herald office, she’d felt the same rekindled longing he did, but apparently that wasn’t the case. How could it be when she was with Merlin, probably melting into his brother’s arms? She had just wanted to use him. Paybacks were a bitch.

  “Caith?”

  Light from the bright overheads washed over him, making his pupils contract. He turned in his chair to find Veronica had wandered onto the porch. With a hand to shield his eyes, he shook his head. “Turn off the lights. They’re too bright.”

  She complied, plunging the room into soothing shadows but for the muted table lamp. “What are you doing out here?”

  “Reading.” He stood, frowning down on her as she approached. He scrutinized her face, searching for some evidence of how she’d passed the hours with Merlin. Still angry from butting heads with his father, growing angrier at her innocent arrival, he couldn’t keep the sting from his voice. “Dinner is really getting late these days, huh?”

  Her mouth thinned. “What does that mean?”

  “Exactly what it sounds like. I thought you had a lodge to run.”

  “Which doesn’t include twenty-four hour service. You’re not my keeper, Caithelden.” She started to turn away, but he snagged her arm.

  Veronica tensed, her eyes flashing anger. “Get your hands off me.”

  “Is that what you said to Merlin, or did you let him do what he wanted?” He knew as soon as he said the words he’d made a dreadful mistake.

  “You arrogant bastard!” She yanked free, the anguish on her face so gut-wrenching, it left him speechless. Tears sprang to her eyes, spilling over her lashes. “God, I hate you. I really do.”

  She ran for the door.

  “Veronica!” Caith surged after her, stumbling when his leg collided painfully with a chair in the semi-dark. He never slowed, catching her just inside the doorway. “Let me explain.”

  He pinned her to the wall, pressing forward until her scent overwhelmed him. She smelled of vanilla and spice, a combination so contrastingly warm and exotic, it made his head reel. His anger drained as though it had never been. Moonlight spilled through the surrounding windows, turning her hair to silver wheat, her skin to porcelain cream.

  “Get your hands off me.” Tears glistened on her face, bright as starlight in the darkness.

  He hated himself for that pain, knowing he was the cause.

  “I’m sorry.” The words spilled out of him. He couldn’t stop them anymore than he could his lips from tasting her cheek, her tears. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just…” His mouth found hers, seared her lips with heat. He cupped her face in his hands. “Ronnie, I’ve been going crazy thinking about you with him all night.”

  She wedged an arm between them. “You don’t care about me.” Her eyes were bright, still glittering with tears. “You only want a taste of what you had from me years ago.”

  “That’s not true.” He bowed his head against her forehead. “Let me show you. Let me make love to you.” He kissed her again, slowly this time, sliding his tongue between her lips as if he had a lifetime to kiss her. He willed her to melt, poured his soul into the kiss, igniting a tide of blistering heat to engulf them both.

  She relaxed, cautiously inviting. That small victory made him groan low in his throat. He nipped her lips, enjoying her startled intake of breath. “I could kiss you fo
rever.” His voice was low, a murmur against her skin. He raised a hand and brushed her hair aside. “Tell me what you want, Ronnie.”

  * * * *

  Veronica couldn’t speak. When she stepped onto the porch and spied him sitting alone, her heart had leaped to her throat. She’d been so fearful Stuart would fire him, that he’d leave and she’d never see him again. She should forget him, but it was impossible when he kissed her.

  Once and again. Her lips grew swollen and moist beneath the attention. She had wanted this. She’d let Merlin coerce her into a dinner date engineered to make Caith jealous, but she hadn’t expected it to work so quickly or effectively. She wasn’t ready to go to bed with him. “You only want sex.”

  His crutch, the way it had always been.

  His breathing grew rasp. “Is that so wrong?” His mouth found hers, hungry and demanding, so thoroughly possessive she lost herself in his passion. Just as quickly he retreated, smiling slightly as he looked down on her. He traced a finger across her lips, followed with an agonizingly insubstantial brush of his tongue. “Let me make love to you.”

  He was good. Too good. Veronica felt her resolve slipping. She shivered as he found the top button on her blouse and eased it free. Every nerve in her body screamed for her to run, but he kissed her again, over and over, and she couldn’t deny she wanted him, needed him. That she had always wanted him.

  Another button followed.

  “Caith.” She placed both hands on his chest. “Not here. The guests…”

  “Are all in bed. You don’t think I’m going to let you go now, do you?” His voice was husky, so thick with desire it left her trembling. If she had any doubt of his need, it vanished when he pressed against her. Before she knew what she was doing, she surrendered and allowed him to lead her to the sofa.

  “Do you have something?” she asked breathlessly. “Protection?”

  He nipped at her lips. “It’s not like I carry something around with me.”

  She would have imagined him a condom-in-the-pocket kind of guy. “I’m on the pill, but—”