by Debora Geary
He’d barely been out of boyhood when his parents moved to Florida, land of sunshine and golf tees.
“They were wrong, you know.” Moira reached for his hand, her grip strong and sure.
Mind barriers had never kept her out. Marcus shrugged, the ache old and dulled by time. “They wanted to forget.” Easier to do away from the gray mists.
His aunt’s eyes snapped. “They lost one son. They chose to let go of the other.”
And for all the days he’d hated her for it, she’d never been willing to do the same. He met her gaze, for once wanting her to know what she meant to him. “I wasn’t easy on any of you.”
“No, you weren’t.” Moira’s fingers touched his cheek, whisper soft—and then her eyes began to dance. “And for penance, you can drink the concoction young Lizzie carries up the stairs.”
Blasted healers and their witch brews. “I should have made a run for it while I had the chance.” If his legs hadn’t still felt like a close cousin to spaghetti, he’d have been long gone.
“You’ve never been quite fast enough.” His aunt’s grin blossomed as footsteps reached the top of the stairs. “Drink it all up, and I might bring you a nice bit of tea with whiskey.”
“I’m not a small boy who needs bribing.”
“No. You’re a man who needs his strength. You’ve a message to consider.”
His brain was less wobbly now. The dead didn’t speak—and they didn’t talk to escaped infomercial actresses. Someone had simply gotten lucky.
He didn’t have to look to feel Moira’s eyes piercing his head—she’d always been able to do that, too. And her Irish was back to full strength. “Sometimes messages come in strange packages. It doesn’t make their contents any less important.”
She had a special talent for making him feel like a small boy again—and a badly behaved one. “You think Evan reached across forty years to help me find a toy soldier?”
“No.” Her voice was drizzled with the sense of humor that was one of her greatest gifts. “But you could start there.”
Right. He’d get on that—right after he dealt with whatever vile concoction was about to walk through his door. Lizzie’s mind practically overflowed with glee—and the whispers outside the door suggested she had company.
His kingdom for a remote cave.
Chapter 3
“Did Uncle Marcus really break Gran’s favorite teacup?” Sean grinned at Lizzie, eyes hopeful.
Sophie, inventorying her herbs at the kitchen table, chuckled quietly. He was hoping for someone to displace him as Aunt Moira’s current favorite cauldron scrubber—leaving his toy snake collection in her hot tub hadn’t been his smartest move ever.
“Uh, huh.” Lizzie was puffed up with the importance of the bedtime story she had to tell. “And then he fell on the floor and didn’t move for hours and hours. Or at least ten minutes.”
Kevin looked up from his book. “Minutes aren’t as long as hours.”
Lizzie brushed off irrelevant details. “Uncle Aaron had to carry him to his bed, and he says he’s not feeding Uncle Marcus any more blueberry scones.”
Sophie tried to keep her giggles quiet—that bit was news to her. Lizzie had very good ears and a storyteller’s flare for the right details.
“He’s going to be hungry as a bear when he wakes up, though.” Their small teller of tales grinned. “I sleep-spelled him.”
Lizzie’s spell had been strong enough to knock out a giant for a week. Not that Marcus had allowed it to hit him, but they’d have to work a little more on dosing—her talents were growing exponentially, and that required more care on the spell volume.
“So what was the special message?” Sean was whispering now, and Kevin’s nose wasn’t in his book any longer. Sophie kept hers studiously pointed at the herbs—she was curious what her pint-sized assistant had picked up.
Lizzie reached for another cookie. She was still reveling in the unlimited-cookie access that came with her healer role. “It was kind of spooky. Something about a baby and a dead body under the church steps.”
Sophie rolled her eyes and made a mental note to have Marcus test Lizzie for mindreading again.
“The church steps?”
Sophie looked up at the odd tone in Kevin’s voice. He and Sean both seemed distinctly unsettled.
“Yup.” Lizzie nodded sagely and scarfed down the rest of her cookie. “Uncle Billy watched a movie once where they hid a body inside a freezer and somebody ate it on accident, so it’s probably smarter to put it under a church.”
Sophie grimaced and scratched Uncle Billy off her future babysitter list.
“Eww.” Sean looked anything but revolted. “You think Uncle Marcus would eat a body?”
“No way.” Lizzie grinned and blew bubbles in her milk. “Gran says he’s an awfully picky eater for a witch.”
“He likes carrots,” Sean said with disgust.
Sophie choked back more giggles. Marcus’s dietary habits ran to a lot more salads and crunchy vegetables than did your average resident of Fisher’s Cove.
“What was the part about the baby?” Kevin handed Lizzie a napkin—he had plenty of experience with milk-bubble incidents.
“Dunno.” Lizzie shrugged. “I heard that a baby might come to live with Uncle Marcus, but that can’t be right.”
Twin heads nodded in agreement—nobody in their right mind would give a baby to the village’s most crotchety bachelor.
Sophie stared at her stock of chamomile, wondering. Adele had looked like everyone’s idea of witch fraud—but her eyes had spoken of truth.
And she’d busted into the Witches’ Lounge on some kind of trail that Jamie and Daniel couldn’t follow—all the gold lamé in the world couldn’t manufacture that kind of stealth.
“It’s a mystery,” said Lizzie solemnly.
It certainly was. Sophie sighed—and then looked at the jar in her hand in disgust. It most definitely wasn’t chamomile. The label said so, but chamomile wasn’t purple. She hadn’t made a mistake that basic in twenty years. Rule number one of a healer—never mess with herbs while distracted.
Or excited.
Sophie paused—she wasn’t the only witch who’d been playing in the herb supplies lately. Or the one most likely to make beginner mistakes. Time to see how well their youngest healer knew her plants. “Lizzie, come help me organize my jars. I think we’ve got a bit of a problem here.”
Lizzie bounced over. “That one’s gentian. I used it in Uncle Marcus’s tea.”
It was indeed gentian—and his insides would be stained purple for a year. Sophie was a little afraid to ask. “And why did you put it in his tea?”
The grin was pure trouble—and irresistible. “So he’d have purple poop.”
Sophie tried not to laugh, really she did. And then she gave up and made another mental note. One about not making pint-sized witches mad.
~ ~ ~
He was an idiot. A full-fledged, fairy-tale-swallowing idiot.
Marcus leaned against the corner of Fisher’s Cove’s only church building, his legs none too steady just yet. Lizzie had obviously been more concerned with the taste of her putrid concoction than its actual healing properties.
And with Sophie watching, he hadn’t dared tip it into the nearest plant. Earth witches got unreasonably mad when you killed their green leafy pets.
Well, wobbly or not, these were the legs he had. Time to get on with business. Marcus pushed off the wall, cursing the looming hints of old age. It wasn’t the first time he’d crept through a dark night toward the church steps, but his legs had been far steadier the last time.
It was his mind that had been shattered then.
He’d come every night for weeks after Evan had gone, hoping against hope that he’d find his brother under the steps, waging epic battles and offering a sunshine grin of greeting. Night after night of hoping until the word “dead” had finally seeped into every corner of his soul and blown out the candles of happiness and wishful thinki
ng.
He hadn’t been back since.
Shaking with memories, Marcus edged toward the steps. They seemed so much smaller now—a crawlspace, not the castle fortress of two small boys. His hands reached out, fumbling in the darkness, looking for a board left loose for forty years.
Youch. Forty-year-old boards had some vicious splinters. Nursing a finger inside his mouth, Marcus pulled a small flashlight out of his pocket. The board hung slightly off-kilter, just as it had when two marauding pirates discovered it all those years ago.
Evan had wanted to pry it loose so they could make people walk the plank—and then they’d discovered the world hidden behind it.
The world clearly not meant for adults. Marcus twisted his shoulders through the opening, grimacing as his shirt caught and tore. He might let Sophie take a splinter out of his finger, but he wasn’t letting her near his chest again anytime soon.
Frustrated, he grabbed on the cloth and pulled—the faster he got this over and done with, the sooner he’d be tucked back in bed with whiskey and a good book.
Pulling his knees through, Marcus crouched just inside the small cavern under the steps—and gaped. Flung back in time, his fingers reached out for the pile of shiny rocks. Treasure, painstakingly gathered from the beach. They’d been working on Mom to let them “borrow” her sewing chest.
Evan would have managed it eventually—Aunt Moira had called him her Irish sweet talker.
Marcus picked up a green rock. In the daylight, it would gleam with flecks of gold—and the scorch marks where one determined fire witch had tried to melt the rock and mine the treasure within.
Hand clutched rock—and a wave of grief slammed his heart, raw and fresh. He shouldn’t have come.
Heedless of the close confines, Marcus turned to leave—and saw the swords. Not the tinfoil and cardboard of his boyhood. Fancy made-in-China plastic with flashing lights and Star Wars stickers.
He knew those sabers. Sean and Kevin had loved them mightily two Christmases past. Even grumpy uncles occasionally gave decent gifts.
It had almost been worth the week of swirling nightmares they’d caused—full of swords, evil gray mists, pirate battles, and a brother long gone.
Evan, alive only in his dreams.
And now their lair had been invaded by a new generation. Throat still raw with unshed tears, Marcus reached out to put the shiny rock back on the pile. The boys could keep their treasure. He ran his fingers over the stones one last time, a benediction of sorts.
And then his hand brushed plastic. Mental mists threatening, Marcus hissed into the dark—and dug for the small toy hiding in the rocks.
One toy soldier, consigned to ignominious burial under a pile of shiny pebbles. Marcus clutched the small green figure and hurled a single howl of grief out into the night.
And then, with the wrenching practice of four decades, he locked it down. Pushed away the mists and the grief and the aching crevice that ran the length of his soul.
Hands steady now, Marcus laid the soldier back on the rocks. Perhaps he’d give Kevin and Sean the other five, tucked in their shoebox mausoleum in the back of his closet. Grown men had no need of toy soldiers.
The splinters didn’t dare bother him on the way out. No blood left for them to find. He emerged from behind the board and stood, slightly dizzy and blinded by the moon’s brightness. Long past time to go.
It was a short walk to his cottage, even tucked away on the edge of the village as he was. He was getting far too comfortable in Fisher’s Cove. Maybe the soldier was a reminder—pain grew in the soil here. He needed the long, remote beaches of his cliffside home.
Ha. He hadn’t been there in months. Every time he turned to go, there were witchlings or cookies or Aunt Moira’s unwavering eyes. Always another creeping tentacle holding him here, trying to make him forget the pain.
Or trying to make him remember it.
Perhaps the dead of night was as good a time as any to leave.
Marcus thumped up his walkway, wondering where the hell he’d left the keys to his Jeep—and nearly fell headlong into the front door. Bloody Hecate, always tripping him up. The creature could damn well stay in Fisher’s Cove. He looked down for the cursed cat—and froze.
Two shiny eyes looked up at him.
And then the thing in the basket stirred—and ice closed over Marcus’s heart.
~ ~ ~
Such giggles. Moira held tight to the fleeting laughter as the vestiges of her dream slowly leaked away. She knew those giggles, even if decades had passed since they’d rung in her world.
Evan and Marcus. Light and dark, the two of them—and they’d wrapped the entire village around their fingers the day they were born. Evan, a born leader with mischief in his heart, and his twin, the thinker.
Sean and Kevin often reminded her of the boys who had once been.
Memory floated in now, mixing with the giggles of dream. More had been lost that horrible day than Evan’s light. The oldest of magics had come for their beautiful boy—and left behind terrible mystery and heartrending loss.
And giggles that came only in dreams.
Moira reached for the bedside lamp. Old women had trouble going back to sleep, and this dream had carried weight. She’d go fix some tea and sit at her table and remember. Evan, my boy, you left us far too soon.
And try as they might, they couldn’t heal the twin who missed his light.
She let the tears come. There was magic in tears, just as there was in tea and remembering.
~ ~ ~
Even in tiny Fisher’s Cove, it wasn’t all that unusual for someone to pound on the healer’s door in the middle of the night.
Sophie cuddled into Mike, trying to find the part of her brain capable of waking up—and hoping the noise didn’t wake up Adam. Elorie’s twins slept through anything, but Adam was a whole different story. Maybe they could rig a soundproofing spell for their bedroom.
“I’ll handle it.” Mike dropped a kiss on her head and swung out of bed, speaking in whispers. “You sleep.”
Her husband was a good healer. Heck, six-year-old Lizzie was a good healer. Surely they could make do without her for one night.
Unless it was Moira again.
Wide awake now, Sophie reached for her robe, and heard Adam squirming in the bassinet beside the bed. Damn.
“I’ll handle it.” Mike’s brown eyes drilled into hers, self-designated protector of her sleep. “It’s not Moira—you’d know.”
She would—she laid a light healing scan in place every night, even though her husband frowned at the energy it cost her.
Adam’s noises got louder. With a sigh, Sophie grabbed her baby sling. The rocking spell on the bassinet was sheer genius, but even it couldn’t keep her little seedling asleep most nights. It was hard not to be jealous of Elorie’s bright eyes and four consecutive hours of sleep at a time.
Sophie shook her head, chuckling quietly. Anyone jealous of the easy life of a mother of two-month-old twins needed to have her head examined. Aislin and Lucas might sleep well, but they kept everyone hopping the rest of the time.
A couple of small adjustments to the sling, and Adam settled in happily. He’d stay that way as long as she kept moving. Time to go see what the fuss was about.
Singing a soft lullaby, she headed out of their back rooms toward the front door—and frowned. The voices at the door were male. Mike, and… Marcus?
Her steps hastened, healer brain snapping into place. “What’s wrong?”
Marcus, pasty white, held out a basket. “I found this on my porch.”
Sophie moved closer. Gingerly. Given the look on his face, it couldn’t be pretty.
The last thing she expected was pink cheeks, a head of riotous red fuzz, and the most gorgeous deep-lavender eyes she’d ever seen.
Sophie reached out a finger, enthralled. And then froze as gold-lamé-clad messengers and reality collided. Oh, God. A baby.
Her eyes shot to Marcus. Fear and denial coated every
stark inch of him.
Tired mamas and smart healers didn’t beat their heads against that kind of brick wall. Not without reinforcements. Sophie smiled down at the baby one more time—and dodged down the path of least resistance. “She’s beautiful. Bring her inside where we can get a closer look at her.”
Marcus stood, frozen to the spot. “Take her.” His rasp belonged to a headless horseman.
Even tired mamas weren’t that dumb. Sophie waved a quiet hand at Mike, who headed for the door. Time to wake up some backup. She patted Adam’s bottom, checking that he slept quietly in his sling. “I only carry one baby at a time. Come on inside.”
With the experience of a healer long used to reluctant patients, she shepherded the mostly catatonic Marcus into the living room, still holding the basket out at arm’s length as if it contained a red-haired, lavender-eyed bomb.
Maybe it did.
“Set her down here, on the table.” Sophie looked into the bright eyes. Just what they needed—another night-owl baby. She reached out a finger again, this time adding a light healing scan. “Hello, beautiful. What’s your name?”
“Morgan. There’s a note.” Marcus had backed away to the far corner of the room. Sophie hoped Mike was quick.
“That’s a big name for such a little girl.” Sophie kept crooning nonsense, mostly for Marcus’s benefit. A tie, however tenuous, holding him in the room. “And healthy, too.” The first levels of healing scan showed a perfectly healthy baby girl, about three months old.
The physical covered, Sophie shifted to scanning the magical. Her hands moved with the automatic ease of something done thousands of times—and then tripped into dynamite.
Holy hell.
Sophie spun around, one arm cradling Adam tightly. “She’s covered in magic.”
He nodded, wordless—and now she understood his fear.
A lavender-eyed bomb. Sophie stepped away, mama bear protecting the child in her arms.
The rasp from the far wall bruised her ears. “I’ve shielded him. Adam. She’ll do him no harm.”
More carefully now, Sophie traced magical lines. Yes, Adam was shielded—as was every other little one in Fisher’s Cove. Marcus the recluse had a very soft spot for the tiny and weak.
