by Debora Geary
Her eyes glanced over at Moira, and lit with humor. “We could use that, too.”
Moira looked down and realized she still clutched Lizzie’s wreath—bedecked in magic-soaked cornflowers. Hands shaking like spring petals in a stiff wind, she stretched it out to her nephew’s head. A gift of moondust and love.
Lizzie grinned up at him. “You look really lovely tonight, Uncle Marcus.”
The ghostly smile that cracked his face was the most beautiful sight Moira had seen in a very long time.
Their smallest healer touched his cheek—and began to sing.
“The moon shines bright, the baby sleeps
A warm and happy dream in creeps—”
Moira tried not to laugh. The little imp was trying to cast a sleep spell, and a very sneaky one, too. “Not just yet, sweetheart. Sophie needs a little more time to work, and we need to ask Marcus a few questions.”
Lizzie frowned. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? He seems awfully tired.”
Moira nodded in approval. It was good for healers to ask questions. “He needs sleep, lovely girl—but he also needs for us to help him keep Morgan safe. And perhaps you can get him to drink a nice cup of tea, too.” One laced with a few things her nephew hopefully wouldn’t recognize.
I’m smart enough not to drink healer tea.
The mindvoice was raspy, like it hadn’t been used in a decade—but it warmed the very cockles of Moira’s heart. “You’ll drink what we give you. When you’ve a wee one depending on you, you can’t act like a difficult child.”
Sparks flashed in Marcus’s eyes, and something approaching healthy color flooded his cheeks. Sophie grinned and kept her head down, quietly healing while he was otherwise distracted.
Ah, it was good to be useful. Moira eyed her nephew. “Lizzie, if he gets at all disagreeable, fetch me that bottle of stinking-lily tincture.” It actually tasted rather mild, but no one ever doubted the name.
“I’m not your patient.” He scowled down at the child in his arms. “She is.”
One tiny foot kicked in apparent disagreement.
Moira had to agree with the babe—at the moment, her keeper looked the far worse for wear. She looked up as Ginia skated into the room, bottle in her hand. “Well, this ought to fix up anything else that ails her.”
Marcus held out the child, his arms still shaking like leaves.
Ginia, healer instincts far wiser than her years, simply handed him the bottle.
Moira knew better than to cheer out loud when he took it. She listened for the first sounds of suckling, and then touched his arm gently. There were things they needed to know before his strength gave out entirely. “Tell us what happened.”
“I don’t have any damn idea.”
She wondered if he had any clue how much fear and denial oozed out the cracks in his voice. “Just tell us what you know.”
“She was cold. I woke up, and she was a block of ice.”
Sophie leaned over and brushed Morgan’s forehead. “Has it happened before?”
Moira saw “no” die on Marcus’s lips. “Perhaps once. We were sleeping in the chair in my living room the first night she arrived. I thought I’d simply been incompetent and not dressed her warmly enough.”
His eyes dared them to push him any further.
Moira had never been afraid to take a dare. “Out with it, Marcus Grimald Buchanan. All of it. Help us keep her safe.”
He gazed down at the baby, happily gorging in his arms. And squeezed his eyes shut. “The mists. I dreamed of the mists tonight.”
Her heart tore in two at his pain. She nodded at Lizzie. It was time for him to sleep.
Moira reached for the baby in his arms. “I’ll rock her a while.” She waited for her nephew’s glazed eyes to look up. The terrible power of astral travel had returned in Fisher’s Cove—and she had something to say. Words forty-three years in the making.
“She’ll be safe for tonight. The mists will not get past me twice.”
~ ~ ~
Sophie looked over at the adorable pile of snoring man and six-year-old healer, and got up to slide a pillow under Lizzie’s head.
“She did the work of a full-grown healer tonight,” said Moira softly, rocking. “You’ve done beautifully with her training. Ginia’s as well.”
Ginia had been sent home, protesting, with promises that she could boss Marcus around in the morning. “I’m only passing on what was given to me.” Sophie smiled over at her oldest teacher.
“We’ve need of them.” Moira touched a soft baby cheek. “It seems this generation of witches finds trouble as easily as the last.”
Sophie watched and worried. A stroke hadn’t felled the grandmother of her heart—but another traveler lost just might. Especially a tiny, defenseless baby. “You should get some rest.” Morgan would be safe—Mike had set the monitoring wards himself when he’d brought Adam by for a refill. Her husband’s spells tended toward the Fort Knox variety. If anything magical so much as whiffed Morgan’s direction, they’d know.
Moira continued to rock gently. “I’ll sit here a while yet. We old witches don’t need as much sleep as all you new mothers.”
“You’ve always been the guardian of the night.” Sophie smiled when old eyes looked up in surprise. “Whenever one of us was sick, or fledging new magic, it was always you in the rocking chair, watching and waiting.”
“It’s healer’s work.” Moira chuckled quietly. “Look at all of us here, not quite ready to leave our patients.”
It was true. Even Lizzie had cast a quick linking spell as she’d nodded off to sleep—if Marcus woke, she’d know.
“Tomorrow’s a new day.” Sophie repeated the first mantra of healer training. “We’ve done what we can for tonight.” Well, not quite all—she’d take Marcus and Morgan back home before she left. Aunt Moira needed her sleep.
“It was enough.” Moira replied with the age-old answer. “Any day you can say that is a good day.”
Sophie watched the peaceful duo on the couch, soaking in the moment. It wasn’t going to last. “This is going to rock him. I’ve never felt a brain quite that fractured.” At least not in anyone still living.
“It’s going to rock all of us.” Moira’s voice shook with quiet sadness. “Each of us is connected, one to the other—a great web of souls.”
It was a lovely and heavy thought. “Witches are more connected than most.”
“Aye.” Moira gazed at a world far away. “When one of us departs, it pulls at the entire web.” Her eyes met Sophie’s, gentle and wise. “Even when we’re old and it’s our time.”
A healer trained, all her life—and the thought of losing Moira tore great gaping holes in Sophie’s heart. “It’s not your time yet.”
“It surely isn’t, my dear—and I’m grateful for every day you’ve added to the time I have. But when it’s my time to go, the web will hold.” Moira looked down at the baby sound asleep in her arms and hitched a breath. “When it’s a child we lose, the web simply tears.”
Tears slid, unbidden, into the night. “I don’t know how to heal that.”
Moira looked up with fierce old guardian eyes. “We fight for the child who still lives.”
Chapter 9
Adam wanted an early morning walk—and Sophie had drawn the short stick. Or rather, Mike hadn’t wakened enough to draw a stick, and she hadn’t had the heart to wake him.
She pulled the door quietly closed behind her and debated the dawn-lit landscape. “What do you think, sweet boy? Gardens, beach, or a meandering stroll through the village?”
Dark eyes looked up from the wrap she’d swaddled him in. He never seemed to much care, so long as it got him closer to earth and sky. Her child of the outdoor spaces. Probably not shocking, with earth-witch genes traveling from both parents.
Power didn’t pass that simply, but it heartened Sophie to think that her baby might have a reason for all his demands, especially ones that involved early morning walks on two hours of sleep.
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Not that most of the lost sleep had been his fault. By the time she’d gotten Marcus and Morgan settled back in their cottage on the edge of the village, small pink rays had been venturing over the horizon.
Sophie turned her feet in the direction of Moira’s gardens. Maybe she could do a little flower clean-up before the village woke. Or try a soak—Adam loved the hot pool. It was the getting-out part he disliked. Loudly.
Maybe they’d stick to the gardens.
A wail split the dawn silence. Sophie looked down, momentarily confused. No, not Adam. And coming from the front side of Moira’s house.
Moving more quickly now, Sophie rounded the side of the cottage—and found a man pulling his hair out. Literally. All while cursing at a basket up on the porch. The one with all Morgan’s earthly possessions piled up beside it.
Healers trained to take in a scene in seconds—sometimes life depended on it.
This time, she was tempted to mete out death instead. Three steps and she swooped Morgan out of the basket. One more and she planted the tight ball of baby fury on Marcus’s chest. “What, you think you can dump her on a little old lady and run for the hills?”
His cheeks blazed with color. “I can’t do this. I won’t.”
“So you think Moira should do it instead?”
“There are a hundred people in this village who will help her. They just won’t help me.”
“Because she told them not to, you great clodding idiot.” That got his attention, and Sophie was mad enough to keep using the same club. “The first lesson she teaches all of us, right in the cradle, is about responsibility. She’s still trying to beat that one through your thick head.”
Red changed to chalk white. Marcus looked down at Morgan and squeezed his eyes shut. “I won’t watch her die. I won’t be responsible for that. Not again.”
Oh, God. Guilt slashed at Sophie’s temper. “Nobody working alone has ever called a traveler back. Not ever, Marcus. How could you expect to do it as a boy of five?” She anguished for the mauled boy inside the man. “No one has ever blamed you.”
“Imagine it was your baby. Imagine it was Adam who ran into the mists and never came back.” Marcus’s eyes glittered, his voice sandpaper and blood. “There are no words that would make you feel less responsible.”
Horror coated Sophie’s soul as the picture he painted hit her in full color.
“I can’t live through this again.” Every word was a quiet scream of pain. “And the mists won’t let me die.”
They stood face-to-face, locked in a moment of shared hell—and then Sophie desperately juggled to catch the baby he all but threw at her. She watched, frozen, as he ran, all the hounds of hell at his heels.
And prayed as Morgan howled in reply.
~ ~ ~
Moira flew out of her cottage, a baby’s fury and pain giving her legs youth. The last thing she expected to find was Sophie, sheet white and clutching two babies. She reached for the one making all the noise.
Morgan, wrapped in at least three of her hand-knit throws. With cornflowers tucked inside. Blessed Mother. “Did she travel again?”
“No.” Sophie pointed down the street. “He’s leaving.”
When you’d lived more than seventy years, you recognized a crisis of life and death. The village was slowly healing Marcus. If he left, he’d never come back.
Evan, she hadn’t been able to hold. She wasn’t losing this one.
Moira looked at the shrieking Morgan, swaddled in blankets and healing flowers. “I need a mind witch. A strong one.”
“He’s currently leaving town.” Sophie’s voice flooded with helplessness and fear. “Kevin’s talents are small.”
“Use one of your infernal devices.” The howling baby was undoing them all. “Fetch Lauren or Caro. Now.” Marcus was nearing the edge of town.
Confusion blanketed Sophie’s face, but she was well trained. Sometimes healers had to do first and ask questions later. She began typing frantically into her phone, and not ten seconds later, Lauren materialized beside them, rubbing her eyes.
“Broadcast the baby.” Moira snapped the order, needing instant results—Marcus was nearly at his car door. “Now, Lauren. As loudly as you can.”
One half-awake witch gaped in astonishment—and Morgan’s cries transmitted through the village, a thousand babies loud.
Moira blessed the quick obedience and stared down the street. Hell and salvation have come for you, nephew. Time to choose.
Two women joined her, shoulder to shoulder.
What the heck is going on? Lauren’s mind voice was a lot more awake now.
Sophie rocked Adam, her hands over his ears. Marcus is trying to run. Aunt Moira’s just played our ace card to call him back.
Ah. The megaphone broadcasting Morgan’s screams instantly shut off. Then let’s try it this way, shall we, and not wake up half the village.
Command died on Moira’s lips as she watched Marcus lurch against his car door, hands over his ears. Clearly the volume hadn’t gone down for him.
Lauren stood straighter, face taut with effort. He’s fighting to close his mind barriers.
Moira stood, wailing girl in her arms, and willed light into the battle for her nephew’s soul. Cry, sweet girl. Remind him that you live.
A stray tear leaked down Lauren’s cheek. He hurts. Oh, holy God, he hurts.
Touching a wounded mind was pain a healer understood all too well. Moira reached for Lauren’s hand, sending her strength. We can’t heal him if he leaves.
Then I need more. Lauren reached for Morgan. Her mind does more than cry. She calls him.
Morgan’s cries cut off, the silence nearly knocking Moira to her knees. Bright lavender eyes stared at Lauren, who grinned even as her face strained in effort. “You’re one smart cookie, little girl. Let’s hit him with everything we’ve got.”
Everything. Morgan wasn’t everything.
There was more to give. Moira faced her nephew, far down the street, and called to all the magic still hers to command.
“I call on water and earth, dear to me
I offer up this message three.
An old woman’s love for boy and man,
A healer’s need to heal and stand.
The call of blood, running deep
A promise made and now to keep.
Carry this, my message three
To ears and heart most dear to me.
Let him open, let him see,
As I will, so mote it be.”
Her eyes hazed, consciousness leaking. She’d reached too hard—even in her youth, that kind of power hadn’t been hers.
And then strength poured in from the healer beside her.
Moira redoubled her call—and trusted love, freely given, to hold her up.
~ ~ ~
Lauren felt the moment they won, the tiny girl and the old woman.
The hiccup in time when a mad fight to survive and flee gave way to beaten acceptance.
She dialed down the volume—Marcus wasn’t resisting now. He wasn’t anything at all. With the slow, shuffling gait of a man about to meet his hundredth birthday, Marcus inched back down the street. One foot, then another, reeled in by the twin ropes of love and need coming from Moira and Morgan.
It was the saddest magic Lauren had ever seen.
Tears leaked down Moira’s cheeks. “He comes.”
He did. But not for himself. There was nothing of Marcus in the shell of a man walking up the road. “He comes for you. And the baby.”
Sophie nodded quietly. “It’s enough that he comes.”
Lauren tightened her barriers. The vacant pain in his mind was overwhelming. “He’s broken, Soph. I’ve never felt anything like it.” And it killed her to think she might be responsible.
“You did right.” Moira’s hand slid firm in hers. “We had to ask—and I’m sorry for it.”
She’d blindly followed orders and blasted hell at another mind—one in agony before she’d even started. All b
ecause she trusted the old woman who loved him.
Lauren suddenly longed for the warm arms and reckless heart of the man who loved her.
She watched the pathetic shuffle, Marcus’s eyes glued to the baby in her arms. “He’s not going to make it all the way back.”
Moira’s hand turned to steel. “He needs to come all the way. On his own.”
No. She wasn’t holding a drowning man under water any longer. Ducking out from Moira’s hand, Lauren moved to unite him with his life raft.
“Forty-three years.” Moira’s voice held plea now, and a sadness that melted rebellion. “I’ve walked down the street to meet him every day of more than four decades. Not once has he ever walked all the way back with me.”
The love in her mind punctured Lauren’s lungs. Breathless, she cuddled Morgan tight and closed ranks again with the toughest witch she knew. And prayed the gamble worked.
The last steps took a thousand years. Each.
Marcus stopped in front of Lauren—and lifted up arms weighted by an infinity of chains. He took the bundle that was Morgan, blankets, cornflowers, and all. And cradled her in his arms like spun glass.
One man. And the baby who was his.
When he finally looked back up, there were shadows of Marcus in his mind. “Why has this stupid infant picked me?”
Lauren laughed, something akin to joy tickling her ribs. “I have no earthly idea.”
~ ~ ~
Nell landed in Sophie’s kitchen, a monster plate of Nutella cookies in her hands. Mike stood over the stove, stirring something that smelled like pure heaven. He smiled in greeting and snagged a cookie. “Food’ll be ready in a few minutes, but these will probably go over well in the meantime.”
They’d better—she’d stolen Jamie’s entire backup supply. “How’s everyone doing?”
Mike shrugged, light worry lines between his eyes. “I’m hoping you’ll be able to tell me that. My healing talents don’t run to psychology.” He waved at a tray on the counter. “Mind carrying that in?”
Herbal tea—and coffee? Nell frowned. Fisher’s Cove served up a hundred varieties of tea, but getting a good cup of coffee usually required magic or a drive down the road. “Who’s here?”
