Guardian (The Protectors Series)

by Nancy Northcott

  “I’d like to be making more headway on that toxin,” Stefan admitted. “Getting a blood sample from that guy last night would’ve helped.”

  “I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” Mel told him. The urge to touch his hand was strong. Instead, she clasped hers in her lap. To Val, she added, “I hear you’re getting married. How are the wedding plans going?”

  “Great.” The blonde grinned. “I have my dress, the bridesmaids have theirs, and our friend Hettie’s handling most of the arranging. I’m probably the least stressed bride to be this county has ever seen.” Griff hadn’t said anything, but she slanted a look at him, as though he’d spoken. “You should be grateful.”

  “I am, believe me.” His eyes glinted with silent laughter as he rubbed Val’s shoulder. “We’re being married in Hettie’s backyard, and I think she took things over in self-defense. My mom had what we might call ‘very elaborate ideas.’”

  Drizzling raspberry vinaigrette over a salad, Val nodded agreement. “Everything Lara suggested was gorgeous, but we want something simple. Marc’s going to perform the ceremony, and Stefan will sing.”

  “So I heard,” Mel said. “I’m sure he’ll be great. He has a beautiful voice.”

  Val glanced from her to Stefan and back. “You’ve heard him sing? He doesn’t do it as often as we’d like.”

  “We met in a folk music club,” Stefan said. He shot Mel a warning glance across his hamburger.

  Were his friends about to turn the spotlight on the two of them?

  “What led you into law enforcement?” Griff asked.

  “My roommate in college was murdered. It sort of changed my career path.”

  “My parents were murdered, too,” Val said, “so I became a cop for while. I’m in private security now.” Her eyes met Mel’s in a moment of perfect understanding.

  Mel blinked. She had experienced that kind of accord with other agents, male and female, but never with another woman her own age over something personal. Growing up as a misfit had made her unsure of herself and reluctant to risk opening up around other women.

  “Being close to violent death changes you,” Marc said quietly.

  Val nodded. “Can’t argue there. But let’s talk about something more pleasant on such a pretty day.”

  The conversation wandered into movies, books, and local activities while the group ate. Mel suddenly realized Stefan had his hand on the back of her chair, his fingers folded over the top behind her, the way he used to sit.

  Was he aware of what he was doing? Or was it merely the old habit stirring, just as it had when she’d almost sat back to make contact?

  Val, at least, noticed. Mel saw her glance at Stefan’s arm. The blonde smiled and looked away, but what would she say to Stefan’s other friends later?

  What did Mel want her to say? A week ago, the answer would’ve been easy, but now things were different. She and Stefan were growing closer, and she had no idea how she felt about that.

  “We’re having a cookout this weekend,” Griff said. “Our kitchen will be, at last, finished.”

  “Yay!” Val high-fived him. “Finally.”

  “Stefan said that was the last of your remodeling,” Mel remembered.

  “It is,” Griff replied. “No use being married to a great cook if she doesn’t have a good kitchen. Besides, in the old kitchen, I had no way to chain her to the stove.”

  Val smiled sweetly at him. “Honey, you know just where you can stick that chain.”

  Stefan and Marc hooted. Griff laughed. Pulling his fiancée close, he pressed a kiss into her hair.

  They looked so happy together, so much in harmony. Mel shot a quick glance at Stefan, the man she’d once felt like that with. He also watched the engaged couple, and she caught a brief flash of longing that mirrored her own on his face. She leaned lightly against his fingers. He glanced at her in surprise before he brushed her back in a warm caress that seemed to waft over her heart.

  Marc said, “You’re having a cookout, outdoors, to celebrate your finished kitchen indoors?”

  “That’s the plan,” Val answered. “People gravitate to the kitchen, especially at an indoor party, and that makes seeing the room harder.” To Mel, she added, “Everybody’s been asking about the remodeling, so we figured we’d throw the house open and let them get a good look before the wedding.”

  “Before we start cluttering it up,” Griff put in. “I was about to invite you, Mel, when we got sidetracked.”

  Val tacked on, “We’d love for you to come.”

  “That’s very nice of you.” Mel didn’t need a crystal ball to know they were including her because of Stefan. They seemed to think he would want her there. Or at least the option of having her there, and she felt too many confusing things about that to define. “If we get a break in the case, I’ll be working. Otherwise, I’d be happy to come.”

  That didn’t commit her to anything where Stefan was concerned, but his knuckle lightly stroked the back of her shoulder. The brief, one-fingered touch, hidden from others, had once been their private glad you’re here message.

  She was glad, too, an amazing feeling considering where life had taken them.

  Val’s face turned serious. “As I said, I’m private security now, but I carried an Atlanta PD badge for two years. Griffin spent eighteen months as a police officer in Savannah and has consulted for the FBI. If you want to bounce ideas around, things that’re okay to discuss, of course, we’re available.”

  Mel glanced at Griff, then at the others around the table. These people knew Stefan well. Far better than she did, after all these years. Did they know about his energy manipulation? Did they believe in it?

  Something Stefan had said days ago clicked now. Was Griff the friend who’d been a “psychic” consultant? Even as the question occurred to her, she knew it was so. “I understand you had a successful art show,” she told him. “Congratulations.”

  Griff nodded. “When I’m not painting, I work part-time with Val. I imagine Dan Burton has looked at this, but I keep coming back to the fact both victims were proficient in creative arts.” With a slight smile, he added, “Though some people around here don’t think much of Wiley’s yard sculptures.”

  “We did look at that,” Mel said, “but we found no connection. Cinda mainly volunteered at the shelter and gave a few private lessons. Wiley sold his sculptures at craft shows and county fairs. We couldn’t find any overlap.”

  “The connection may be that they’re both artists,” Griff said. “There are other people, some of them elderly, living out in the countryside alone. Why these two?”

  Val frowned, tracing a little pattern on the tabletop with one finger. “If they’re trying to take a liver, maybe age matters.”

  “I’ve never heard of the liver being associated with the arts,” Marc said.

  “In medieval times,” Stefan responded, “the liver was thought to be the seat of the body’s ‘humors,’ fluids that controlled health and mood. Of course, we know better now. But there are crazies around who latch onto almost anything.”

  Griffin commented, “From humors to creative energy isn’t much of a leap.”

  “No.” Stefan rubbed his chin. A glint of something, maybe an idea, brought out the gold flecks in his eyes before they turned somber brown again.

  “You thought of something,” Mel said.

  “I almost did.” His brows knitted. “I nearly had it, and then it was gone. Something about creativity.”

  He was holding back. Maybe he wanted to check out whatever this was before he mentioned it. Especially if his idea would sound silly without evidence to back it up.

  “This has been great,” Marc said, “but I have an interview with a new volunteer in ten minutes.”

  Stefan pushed back his chair and stood. “Mel, if Hettie’s home, we can go straight out there unless Dan’s expecting you back.”

  “That sounds good. I’ll give her a quick call when we get outside.”

  The group walked
out together. Val and Griff turned to the parking lot. Stefan and Marc followed, but Mel stopped at the edge to make her phone call.

  Griff unlocked a black Dodge Charger and opened the passenger door for Val.

  “You still driving this rocket, Griff?” Stefan asked as Val climbed in. “Now that you’re about to be married, I figured you’d trade it for a minivan.”

  “Nah. I’m leaving that for the little woman.”

  Val shook her head and sighed. “Enjoy your delusions while you can. I figure those artistic hands’ll be much defter at diaper changes, when the time comes, than mine. I plan to leave you to it while I zip around in my Mustang.”

  Her fiancé grinned at her. “We’ll see, babe.”

  “Bet your gorgeous ass.” She wrinkled her nose at him.

  Only people who cared very much about each other traded such cheerful insults. Mel had never had that outside of work. Except with Stefan. Protecting yourself tended to shut others out.

  “Hello?” Miss Hettie sounded out of breath.

  “It’s Mel Wray, Hettie. I hope this isn’t a bad time.”

  “Not at all. I was out in the garden. What do you need?”

  Mel explained, watching the black Charger pull out of the parking lot. She returned Griff’s and Val’s waves and watched Stefan clap Marc on the back.

  Stefan walked to Mel as she and Hettie signed off. His intent look made her breath catch. Her throat went tight with longing for what they’d had.

  “Hettie says to come by,” Mel told him, glad she could manage a casual tone. “She has a friend whose great-aunt kept scrapbooks of unusual events going back to the turn of the last century. Hettie’ll ask her friend to bring them over.”

  “That narrows the range better than an index.”

  “We can hope. If this doesn’t work, we can wade through the raw material in the town library. I’ll call the sheriff’s office and tell them where we’re going. Maybe we’re finally about to catch a break.”

  * * *

  Four hours later, Stefan figured Mel was eating her words about catching a break. He was sure as hell eating his about an index. The late Araminta Cranshaw’s massive scrapbooks included everything from swamp legends—potentially useful—to unusually large hogs at the county fair—totally useless, as were her conspiracy theories about hog size.

  Hettie had set him and Mel up at her antique, twelve-seat dining room table with a pitcher of lemonade and a plate of homemade apple muffins. Afternoon sunlight slanted into the room, glistening on polished mahogany furniture and silver candlesticks and gleaming on the short curtain of sleek, dark hair hiding Mel’s face.

  Stefan rubbed his left thumb idly against his forefinger. He remembered the soft, silky feel of her hair, the way his hands felt buried in its thick mass, the way having it trail over his body aroused him. When she absently pushed it behind her ear, the sight of those delicate whorls and the lobe reminded him of the way she shuddered with pleasure when he kissed her ears. His cock throbbed.

  Shit. He needed to dive in the pool or forget about it, but he couldn’t do either until he had a better handle on the odds if he dived. At least she was on board with learning more about his abilities.

  She was stronger now, braver than she’d been in college. Tougher. She’d handled the first steps well, but he had to tread carefully for both their sakes.

  His cell phone vibrated. He pulled it out of his pocket. Will, maybe with info on that last research bit. If so, Stefan needed privacy. He swiped the screen. “Hey. I’ll call you right back.”

  “Okay.”

  Mel looked up. “Problem?”

  “It’s a work thing. I’ll step outside for a minute.”

  Her expression seemed to close at the mention of his job, not a good sign for his odds. On the other hand, she’d admitted to being jealous, so clearly he had some kind of chance.

  Smiling, Stefan walked down the wide hall with its cypress flooring and worn Persian rug and out through the screen door to sit on the front porch steps. Hettie was reading in the gazebo hammock, out back, but after the summer’s uproar with Griff, Hettie knew or had guessed a lot about the mage world and what she called its doings.

  After seeing Hettie wield her legal skills with lethal determination as part of Griff’s defense team—and in a Collegium trial, no less—the Council had taken all of three minutes to accept her promise to keep the secret that mages—and magic—not only existed but were present all around her in significant numbers. If Stefan were a betting man, he’d lay odds the Council was just a bit intimidated by Hettie Telfair in lawyer mode, and that was a good thing for this town.

  The only other person in Wayfarer who knew part of the truth was Ben Hayes at the Oracle. Needing his help for Griff a few weeks ago, Val had told him they had unusual abilities, but she hadn’t given him nearly the full truth.

  Stefan pushed Will’s speed dial. A moment later, his favorite research nerd said, “You good to talk?”

  “Shoot.” Hettie’s big golden retriever, Magnus, chased a squirrel around the corner of the house and up a live oak. After one satisfied bark, the dog sat, staring upward.

  “I didn’t find much on that creativity thing you asked me to look into. However, there was some thought in the mid 1700s about people who demonstrated high levels of creativity being sensitive to magic.”

  “Define ‘sensitive.’”

  “The materials I saw, mostly old journal entries, speculated a lot about whether creative Mundanes—artists and musicians, in their world, but I’d bet you could widen that to embroiderers, cooks, writers, pretty much any virtuoso—could actually sense magical energy even if they couldn’t wield it.”

  “That might be why Mel thought there was something ‘off’ when she walked into Boone’s hospital room right after I finished healing him. Did anybody ever do a study to see if there was any biological basis for that?”

  “Not that I found. The American Revolution came along, and some of the people thinking about this were casualties. Most were busy with their own affairs. The theory seemed to fall out of favor. Magekind were caught up the distractions of war and chaos like everyone else, and there was some resistance to the idea that Mundanes might possess mage abilities, that the line between mage and Mundane might not be as clear as we’d thought.”

  “Needed somebody to push the theory, maybe. Somebody with a name.”

  “That always helps. Even if you tried to set up an experiment, how would you get a control group? What would you say to a bunch of Mundanes to explain what you’re doing? ‘Do you feel something now?’ kind of harks back to those ads where the guy asks if people can hear him. Except with a big suggestibility factor.”

  “I guess.” Stefan told Will about the discussion at lunch. “Despite what you’ve found or haven’t, I can’t help wondering if Griff’s onto something with that idea. Miss Cinda was kind of frail, but there are people who’d be easier prey than Wiley Boone and his shotgun.”

  “If bullets bounce off me, I don’t care about the shotgun.”

  “There is that. And two incidents don’t make a pattern. Could be coincidence.”

  “Except we hate coincidence,” Will said in a dry voice.

  “Yeah, we do. Anything else?”

  “Nope. Gotta run. I have a date. I’ll call you if I find anything else.” Will disconnected.

  Stefan stared out into the yard, where Magnus trotted along, nose to the ground, on the trail of something. At least the dog had a clear trail to follow. Stefan’s mind was all over the place, particularly in regard to his feelings for Mel.

  On the one hand, his limited revelations hadn’t changed anything. On the other, if he and Mel were to make a relationship work, he had to be completely honest sooner or later. Which meant demonstrating more advanced magic. If she handled that as well as she’d dealt with his limited revelations so far, he’d seek Council approval to tell her about the many races of magical beings.

  Pondering strategy, he walked bac
k into the house. Mel sat where he’d left her. She was skimming an article in a scrapbook while rubbing her neck with her left hand.

  “Cramp?” he asked.

  “Yeah.” She flashed him a quick smile. “I’m going to have to get up and move around when I finish this article.”

  “If you found one worth reading, that’s progress.”

  Mel shook her head. “I’m not sure how much it’s worth, but I’m taking notes. It’s about swamp demon legends.”

  Stefan peered over her shoulder. Before he realized what he was doing, his hands settled on either side of her neck. Mel stiffened, but he brushed his thumb over the spot she’d rubbed.

  “Oh, yeah, seriously tight,” he murmured. “Let me see what I can do. I’ll give you the colleague discount, so no charge.”

  She laughed, and her shoulders relaxed a little. “Okay,” she said at last. “Thanks.”

  Stefan found the knots and dug in. “You feel as though you have steel cables bunched up in here.”

  “I’m worried. We’re not making headway, and I keep thinking about the similar case near the Great Dismal Swamp that was never solved. And now we have a disappearing body.”

  “Sometimes it’s a matter of different angles, a shift in perspective. One change in viewpoint can make everything fall into place. In medicine, anyway.”

  “Investigations are the same.” Mel sighed and set down her pen. “That feels great. You know your stuff, Stefan.”

  He smiled down at the top of her head. “Not to brag, but I did take honors in Anatomy.”

  “And most other things.” Judging by the warmth in her voice, she was smiling.

  “Why do you think this article could be useful?” he asked.

  “It talks about a big guy with glowing eyes clawing some poor gator hunter. It’s from 1927, though, and the Oracle archives burned in 1972. I’m not sure how anyone would know about this to imitate it unless it’s some kind of local cult.”

  “Hmm.” Her shoulders were loosening, and he became more aware of the warm, firm muscles under her cream silk shirt. “Descendants of cultists might know what they did,” he mused, “though a copycat here wouldn’t explain the Great Dismal Swamp case.”