Bedeviled

by Maureen Child

  Gathering up her paint cans, Maggie noticed her hands were shaking. Probably not a good sign. The great chosen one all nervous over fighting a demon? What was going to happen to her when she had to fight Mab?

  Would she be the one to end up a pile of dust blowing in the wind?

  “Do it again!”

  Maggie did as instructed. She dropped into a crouch on the back lawn, swung one leg out and around, then jumped to her feet and punched both arms out in rapid succession.

  “Congratulations,” Bezel called out, and popped another chocolate bar into his big mouth. “First time you didn’t land on your ass.”

  “What does Faery breath do to pixies, I wonder,” Maggie mused, giving the ugly little man a dark look.

  “Makes me uglier.” He hooted.

  “Hard to imagine.”

  “You’re doing really well, Maggie.” Nora applauded from the sidelines in the backyard. She was perched in a lawn chair with a glass of wine and a plate of cheese and crackers beside her. “Wasn’t it wonderful of Quinn to offer to teach you to fight?”

  “Yeah.” Maggie glanced over at her newest teacher and noted in disgust that the Viking wasn’t even breathing heavily. While she, on the other hand, wanted to ice her entire body. Her bruises had bruises. She had so never been meant to be a fighter. An eater, yes. A fighter, no.

  But since her narrowly escaped fiasco with the alley demon yesterday, she’d made good on her vow to herself. She was learning how to defend herself. What good it would do her against Mab, who the hell knew? As mean as Bezel was, he just wasn’t big enough to teach her any kind of defensive moves, so when Quinn volunteered she’d taken him up on it.

  “Not bad,” the Viking told her, coming closer. He kicked her feet wider apart, lifted her fisted hands and turned her body until she was standing at an angle to him. Funny, but for a stock market trader, he sure seemed to be good at this hand-to-hand stuff. “Don’t open yourself to attack. Protect your body. Tuck your chin in. And remember, you can fly.”

  “God, I’m an idiot.” Her hands dropped to her sides as her jaw fell open. “For chrissakes, I did forget I could fly. Or float. Whatever. When that guy came at me I should have just tried to take off.”

  Nora took a sip of her wine. “Wouldn’t that have been something to see? It’s a shame Quinn can’t teach you to fly, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah,” Bezel chimed in. “But males can’t fly—and he’s not a Faery, so, hey.”

  Maggie stared at the pixie, then shifted a hard look to Quinn, who was ignoring all of them.

  “Use your opponent’s weight against them,” he said. “Most won’t expect it, and you can use surprise to your advantage.” Demonstrating, he braced himself for an attack, thick arm muscles rippling. “Rush me.”

  “Hah! Right.”

  “Oh, Maggie, don’t be a spoilsport; do it,” Nora encouraged with a soft sigh and a smile for her lover. “He’s only trying to help.”

  Looking at Quinn’s tall, thick body, Maggie couldn’t figure out why anyone in his right mind would ever attack him. But she’d asked for this, right? So with the setting sun blasting into her eyes, Maggie charged at Quinn. She didn’t get far. Instantly he grabbed her arms, rolled backward and tossed her over his head to land on her back with a thud that jarred every bone in her body.

  “Ooooh, that looked painful. . . .” Nora hurried to her.

  “Wine,” Maggie said faintly, holding up one limp hand.

  Bezel’s sharp laughter sliced at the air.

  Sheba barked at the new game.

  And Culhane stood in the shadows, shaking his head and watching.

  “Why don’t you teach her?”

  Irritation raced up his throat as he turned to face the girl who’d crept up behind him. Again. Either Maggie was splintering his attention drastically, or Eileen Donovan was sneaky enough to be Fae herself.

  He took a patient breath and noticed that here, near the flowers and bushes lining Maggie’s yard, the air didn’t taste quite as bad as it usually did. Eileen was staring up at him, small in her T-shirt and jeans, and the laces on one of her shoes were undone. She looked harmless—but he’d already learned that Donovan women were anything but.

  “You move as quietly as the Fae,” he told her.

  She shrugged and gave him a smile. “You were busy watching Aunt Maggie. So how come you’re not the one teaching her how to do all this stuff?”

  “Because it’s better for her to learn from someone else.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she doesn’t trust me.”

  “Why?”

  He blew out a breath, gave her a fierce frown that had been known to startle Fae children into howls of despair and said, “Enough questions. You shouldn’t be talking to me, anyway. I don’t want the others to know I’m here.”

  “Why?”

  Culhane’s head dropped in resignation. A small laugh shot from his throat in spite of his best efforts. “If you had been the chosen one, little warrior, the battle would already be won.”

  Eileen grinned, clearly delighted, then walked closer and stood beside him in the shadows to watch everyone else trying to get Maggie back on her feet. Maggie staggered a little, took a sip of Nora’s wine, then turned, tripped over Sheba and sprawled face-first on the grass.

  “It’s not going well, then,” Culhane muttered to no one in particular.

  “It would be if you were the one teaching her.”

  “Is that right, now?” Culhane was still watching the sad show on the lawn.

  “Really . . .” Eileen’s voice came out thoughtful now, and quiet. “I think you’d be better, because you’re a much better Faery warrior than Quinn is. He spends way too much time kissing my mom.”

  Chapter Eight

  Her words slammed into Culhane, shaking him down to his bones. How had she . . . ? He dropped to one knee beside her and studied those suddenly solemn Donovan eyes. Was she a seer? Did she have magic of her own? And what the bloody devil was he supposed to do about this new situation? Best to start slow. Find out what she knew and what she was guessing.

  “What makes you think Quinn is Fae?”

  She sighed, a patient sound and one that sent another ripple of annoyance through Culhane. Could it get worse than a mortal child pitying a Fae warrior?

  “Grown-ups are all alike, Fae and human. Did you know that sixty percent of all adults don’t pay attention to kids? Not even their own?” She shoved her hands into the pockets of her jeans. “Kids see a lot more than you think we do. Sometimes we even see stuff you guys miss completely.”

  Culhane shifted a look at the yard and couldn’t help smiling as Maggie’s worthless dog sat itself down on her behind. Maggie yelped, Bezel fell to the ground, rolling and laughing in that awful voice of his, and true to Eileen’s description, Quinn was pulling Nora in for a kiss.

  Clearly the other warrior was being distracted. Distracted enough that he’d allowed a child to see through his disguise.

  But how had this one small human girl identified what was supposed to be a secret plan? What were her too-shrewd-for-her-age eyes noticing? “Tell me then, what do you see when you look, little one?”

  She was staring at him when he turned his gaze back to hers. “I see the way Quinn watches Maggie. Just like you do. Like you’re hoping she can do what you want her to do, and worried that she can’t. Plus, he’s big like you, and moves around as quiet as you. And I saw him breathe Faery dust once, too.”

  Ifreann take him, Culhane thought. A careful plan set in motion, only to be shattered by a bright child. “And have you told your mother or your aunt what you noticed?”

  “Nah.” She shrugged and stuck out her bottom lip for a brief pout. “They wouldn’t believe me, anyway. They think I’m just a kid.”

  “We know better, don’t we?” Culhane said softly.

  “Yeah, we do.”

  She stood before him, proud and sure of herself, and so she should be. She’d seen what he and Qui
nn had hoped to keep hidden. And now Culhane had another problem: what to do with the child he both admired and resented.

  “You, too, are part Fae,” he reminded her, his voice hardly more than a whisper on the wind.

  “I know,” she said with a smile. “Very cool.”

  “And so, Eileen Donovan of the Fae . . .” He faced her solemnly, his gaze locking with hers. “Will you keep the secrets of the Fae warriors?”

  “Why should I?”

  A question for a question.

  Clever and tricky child.

  “For the sake of Otherworld. And for your own. It’s important, Eileen. A task that you alone can accomplish.”

  “Are you going to hurt Aunt Maggie?”

  “I’ve no intention of causing her harm.”

  Her lip curled. “That’s not really an answer.”

  “It’s the best I have for you.”

  “And my mom?”

  He blew out a breath, and a sparkle of Faery dust shone briefly in the shadows. “Your mother’s in no danger from me.”

  She studied him for a long moment or two, then apparently approved of what she saw.

  “Okay, then. I’ll keep your secret.” Eileen held out one small hand to him.

  Culhane took it in a firm shake, according her the respect he would any other brave soul, then released her. “You would make a fine Fae warrior.”

  Eileen grinned. “Thanks, but I’d rather fly.”

  That night when the phone rang, Maggie lurched for it, caught her legs in a twist of sheet and slid to the floor. Her already-bruised hip banged into the old hardwood, and she could have sworn she saw stars glittering in the darkness.

  “For God’s sake—”

  It was pitch-black outside her room and in. The middle of the night. The phone rang again, and this time her stomach slammed into her backbone and did a quick turn. Phone calls in the middle of the night were rarely good news.

  She yanked and pulled at the sheet to set herself free, even as she wondered frantically who could be calling. If there was an emergency at Nora’s her sister would have simply run across the yard and through the back door.

  The shrill scream of the phone sounded again. Free at last, Maggie staggered to her feet, snatched up the phone and plopped onto the bed. “Hello. What?”

  “Hello to you too, Mags.”

  “Claire?” Blinking like a blind woman turned loose in traffic, Maggie reached for the bedside clock, stared at the bright red numbers and yelped, “It’s one thirty in the morning. What’s wrong? Are you dead?”

  “Crap. Sorry about the time. Forgot all about the difference. It’s nine thirty in Scotland.”

  “Oh, well, then, that’s okay.” Maggie dropped onto the bed, phone still clutched in her hand. “Is everything all right? You? Your parents?”

  “We’re all fine.”

  Maggie’s gaze shifted to the window and the night beyond the glass. The wind was howling, and the bare branches of the oak where Bezel insisted on sleeping were dancing like pagans at a festival. Across the yard a single light burned in Nora’s house, and from the foot of Maggie’s bed came Sheba’s insistent snore. Everything was good. Quiet. Peaceful.

  So she relaxed. Knowing that Claire was fine, too, she could, if she forced her eyes to stay open, enjoy talking to the friend she missed so much. “I think I’m awake now, so tell me everything.” She tugged the quilt her grandmother had made higher on her chest and pushed the pillow behind her back. “Start with, When are you coming home?”

  Claire laughed a little. “According to my mother, I am home. But,” she added, “I’ll be back in Castle Bay in a week or so.”

  Since Claire was one of the rare artists who actually made a living with her painting, her time was her own. She had no employer to answer to and no employees to worry about. Maggie envied that in a way, but seen from another light it meant Claire had few ties to bind her to a place. And as someone who was entrenched firmly in her rut of family and home, Maggie didn’t know how Claire managed to thrive so far from her own real home.

  “Anyway,” her friend said, jolting Maggie from her thoughts, “I didn’t call just to talk.”

  “Something is wrong.” Was that a cold draft of air sighing across her or just a twinge of worry? “What is it?”

  “It’s you, Mags.” Claire’s voice went softer. “I called to warn you.”

  “Warn me?” That cold she’d felt settled down on her now, chilling her skin, seeping into her bones. “About what?”

  Claire sighed, and the ripple of it sounded across the phone lines despite the thousands of miles of ocean separating them. “Look, how long have we known each other?”

  It felt like forever, but in reality . . . “About ten years.”

  “And in all that time,” Claire said, her Scottish accent rolling softly over the words, “have you ever known me to be crazy?”

  “Are we counting the night we got drunk and went to the lighthouse to chase ghosts?”

  “No, we’re not.”

  “Then no,” Maggie said, trying to ignore the worry in Claire’s voice. “You’re not a nut. Any more so than any of us, that is.” Besides, thinking about how weird her life had been lately, she had a far higher spot on the crazy ladder than Claire could lay claim to.

  Still, Maggie hugged the quilt to her now and wished she had an electric blanket. Seriously, the cold she felt kept getting colder. “Just spit it out, okay?”

  “Fine. I had a vision.”

  Maggie frowned. “A dream, you mean.”

  “No, a vision.” Maggie could almost see her friend rubbing her bottom lip, a nervous habit Claire was forever indulging in. “I don’t talk about this much, for obvious reasons, but the women in my family have the sight.”

  What was she supposed to say to that? “Uh-huh.”

  To someone else Claire shouted, “I’m telling her, Mother, if you’ll leave me be. . . .” There was a brief pause. “Sorry. There’s only the one phone in the bloody house and it’s in the kitchen, and can you get a bleeding moment to yourself? No.” Her voice shifted again, and became almost an apology. “Yes, Mother, I know you’re only trying to help—”

  “Yoo-hoo!” Maggie called into the phone.

  “Right. Sorry again. Honest to God,” she muttered, “now I remember why I moved thousands of miles away. So, it’s the second sight we have,” Claire said, talking faster now, as if she could sense Maggie’s disbelief and was doing all she could to combat it. “It’s a knowing, I guess. Of future events. Of things that might happen.”

  “You can see the future.” One fist tightened on the quilt and held on as if she were in the front seat of a roller coaster, shooting down the tracks.

  “Possible futures.” Claire’s voice was loud now, drowning out her mother in the background.

  “Okay . . .” Maggie’s gaze drifted to the window again and seemed to hone in on the single lamp burning in one of Nora’s windows. A small beacon of light in the black.

  “Fine,” Claire told her, her voice almost as chilly as Maggie felt. “Don’t believe me. Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve lost a friend over this—”

  “Who’s lost? I’m right here! Didn’t say I didn’t believe you.”

  “You didn’t have to.”

  “Claire.” Maggie sighed her friend’s name. “If you knew what’s been going on around here for the last couple of weeks, you’d understand how a psychic pal is not going to make the headlines in my life.”

  “So you do, then . . . believe me?”

  “Why not? Trust me. When I tell you what I’ve found out about me, you’ll think I’m the fruitcake.”

  “What you found out?” Claire asked. “You mean about the Fae thing?”

  “Huh?” Maggie gaped at the phone in her hand. “The Fae thing? You knew? How did you know and I didn’t know?”

  “Hello? Visions,” Claire said patiently.

  “Right. Vision girl.” Maggie flopped back against her pillows; then something o
ccurred to her and she bolted upright one more time. “You have visions? So did you see when Mike cheated on me?”

  “Um . . .”

  “Did you know when Todd was planning to up and leave?”

  “Now, don’t take on so—”

  “And poor Joe. Did you see that?”

  “What about Joe? I thought you broke up with him. You didn’t take him back, did you?”