A Nomadic Witch (A Modern Witch Series: Book 4)

by Debora Geary

  Surer now, he reached into the eternal gray, wishing a temper tantrum into his arms.

  A whisper at first—so faint he wasn’t sure it was real.

  And then again.

  Hope blasting, he swam through the fog. Nothing. Silence. Frantic now, he yanked at the circle’s power flows. Not fire—they were in too deep for that. He could feel Devin’s fierceness, swimming in the mist beside him.

  Kenna!

  Not Kenna. Morgan. The words were feather-dust light, pushed into the sky through a mountain of power.

  Jamie froze, in agony—and then he understood. It was Morgan who had carried them away. It was her trail he needed to find.

  The father in him screamed in protest, but the witch understood.

  MORGAN!

  The cold was beginning to suck at him. He dared not imagine what it did to small girls. Purple eyes. He looked for purple eyes.

  And this time, the whisper of sound came with more power. Jamie swam forward, struggling against the enervating gray cold—and then felt a tornado hit his back. Marcus.

  Jamie clung to the funnel with everything he had—and trusted a father’s love.

  It was Morgan’s eyes he saw first, blazing through the mists. And then his furious daughter, throwing spluttering bolts of fire at the cold.

  Jamie wrapped them both tight in his arms—and waited for the love of twelve to reel them home.

  ~ ~ ~

  Marcus wrapped his hands around the tall green glass and chugged, immune to its taste by now.

  It was his third.

  His abused power channels still hurt, but it no longer felt like an army of fire ants trying to eat their way out. One last gulp and he set the glass back into the hands of the witch who had delivered it. “I think that’s enough.”

  “I should hope so,” said Moira briskly, patting the pillow behind his head. “The last time I had to dose you three times was when you got into Uncle Billy’s whiskey stash.”

  He was pretty sure her intent back then had been punishment, not cure. Marcus looked down at the small girl curled up in his lap like a sleeping kitten. “I had to do it.”

  “Uncle Billy surely didn’t think so.”

  He watched her shuffle things around on a tray, making room for a glass that would have fit in the first place. “In the circle. Jamie was running out of bandwidth. I had to give him a push.”

  “Did I say any different?” She reached in behind him again, poking and squishing, her forehead inches from his. And for just a fraction of a moment, his battered mental powers functioned, and he felt her soul shaking.

  He should have known. Her Irish always thickened in sorrow and fear. He stopped her hands as gently as he could. “Enough with the infernal pillow plumping. I’m fine.” He glanced down at Morgan. “We both are.”

  Her breath caught.

  He ignored it. The rock of his life was terrified—and he needed her brave. “We’re in a castle guarded by the world’s best coding team and half the witches of Realm.” He touched her cheek. “And if Aervyn’s been let loose again, probably a couple of alligators, too.”

  He could feel her mighty heart finding its footing as he spoke.

  So he kept talking. Babbling. “Ginia says Aaron’s got the kitchen under control, the garden’s a mess, and Kenna’s learning to crawl out on the ramparts.”

  Moira sniffled, brushing invisible crumbs off his chest. “She’s a fierce wee thing, that one. Didn’t even stop for a nap first.”

  He dug for his best gruff bachelor voice. “She’ll end up alligator bait if she’s not careful.”

  “Alligators don’t eat witches.” The light in her eyes was dim—but it was there. “Aervyn promised me so.”

  He could feel the boost from the green goo fading. “We can always dangle him over the moat and see what happens.”

  “His toes are pretty stinky.” Moira laid a hand on his forehead, eyes twinkling properly now. “And Nell would dangle you next.”

  She would. He could feel his eyes getting heavy. Blasted healers and their sleep spells. He had things to do.

  “Tomorrow,” said Moira softly. “We’ll watch over you both tonight.”

  He smiled as he faded into haze. His rock was back.

  Chapter 19

  Marcus stood on the high tower walk of Morgan’s castle, missing his remote mountain keep. He craved its solitude far less now, but he’d always slept well there. His kingdom for a decent night’s sleep.

  Morgan had woken at 2 a.m. on the dot, entirely recovered from her ordeal and ready to play.

  He needed to reprogram the castle guards. They were rather surly in the middle of the night.

  Fortunately, morning had brought a trio of cheery babysitters and a bacon-biscuit breakfast. He munched on the biscuit and watched the girls, playing with Morgan on the ramparts below.

  As prisons went, it was a happy one.

  “You’re a hard man to track down.”

  Only fancy footwork and a damn fast levitation spell kept him from spilling his very real brains on the virtual rocks below. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  His visitor smiled. “You know who I am, do you?”

  There couldn’t be two gold-spangled mediums capable of waltzing into Realm whenever they pleased. “Adele Underwood, Las Vegas fraud.”

  Her eyes sparked with irritation. “I came to deliver a message. You keep being rude to me and I’ll walk back the way I came.”

  “Right.” Marcus turned away, looking over the lands that would be his home for the foreseeable future. Dust bunnies would have to wait until Morgan’s power stabilized. “Let me guess. This one can be mine for the low price of $4.99 a minute.”

  “You don’t like who I am or what I do.” Adele’s voice hinted at volcanoes. The non-dormant kind. “But mostly I think you’re mad as hell that your brother decided to talk to me instead of coming to you.”

  “You might say that.” Marcus liked the two-foot height advantage the tower walk was currently giving him. “I’m mad as hell about a lot of things.”

  “So I’ve heard,” said Adele briskly, climbing up beside him. “He can’t come to you, you know. He says you fear the mists.”

  “The mists are evil.” The touch of them yesterday still shuddered in his brain.

  “No.” Adele waved at his head guardsman, staring up in slack-jawed shock. “They’re dangerous, but that’s entirely different. Evan’s magic works through the mists—he can’t talk to anyone without them.”

  “Like hell.” Marcus whirled, a sword in his hands before he even thought it. “I spent a thousand terrified nights under my bed with the mists licking my toes.” And he’d have gladly given his life to them for just one word from Evan.

  “And your brother spent those thousand nights crying on the other side of the veil.” Adele pushed the sword out of his nerveless fingers. “It took years for him to grow into his magic, just as it did for you. You weren’t the only small boy sad and alone.”

  He’d have sworn his heart had no blood left. He’d have been wrong. Words scraped out over the jagged nails in his throat. “Then why did he go?”

  She only shook her head. “I don’t know.”

  He did. Because something greater than the love of a brother had called. And Evan had answered without looking back even once. Into the mists and forever away.

  “He was five.” Ring-bedecked hands closed over his. “Just a boy, and facing magic far bigger than he’d ever known.” Adele blew out a harsh breath. “You both were.”

  He hadn’t blamed Evan. Then. Now might be a different story.

  Adele turned to look over the scenery one last time. “He has a very specific message for you. Perhaps it makes a little more sense to me now.” She turned her head in his direction. “He says to stop being such a stupid-head.”

  Marcus teetered, memory swamping him. His brother, always inventive, had armed some of Aunt Moira’s gardenias with fire power, and they’d been playing flower wars.


  A fun game until their owner had walked out her back door and Evan, devilish gleam in his eyes, had taken aim at her skirts. Marcus’s mind-hissed “stop being such a stupid-head” hadn’t deterred his brother in the slightest, but it had left no doubt who the culprits were—in his haste, he’d sprayed the mindsend into every head within two blocks.

  It had been the first time they’d met the inside of Aunt Moira’s cauldron. Two scrubbing pads—Evan’s for misuse of magic, and Marcus’s for misuse of the English language.

  Stupid-head. Well, if Evan thought he was being every kind of idiot, he could bloody well show up and say so. “I don’t suppose he sent you anything more useful than that?”

  Adele shook her head. “He seemed tired.” She raised an eyebrow. “But I got the distinct impression the two of you’d had some kind of argument.”

  Marcus snorted. “I can hardly argue with a figment of your imagination.” Throwing a witch temper tantrum on Evan’s beach wasn’t arguing. And he’d meant every word. The mists weren’t getting Morgan, even if they had to spend the next year living in Realm to prevent it.

  A ring-laden hand touched his arm gently. “Some advice from a nosy fraud?”

  He sighed. Maybe she was a witch after all—they all seemed to feel a need to pelt him with advice he didn’t want.

  She waved a hand in the direction of the ramparts, swarming with life. “Spend more time down there and less time up here.”

  “I needed time to think.” He didn’t bother to scowl—she seemed immune.

  “You need time to live.” Adele’s eyes got all grandmothery and soft. “If there’s something that oversized head of yours is supposed to figure out, it will come to you.”

  It sounded oddly like Daniel’s connect-the-dots advice. “You think great insights come while changing poopy diapers, do you?”

  Gold-laméd laughter rolled out over Morgan’s castle. “They certainly can. And if that doesn’t work, you could always try scrubbing cauldrons.” She winked. And then she was gone.

  ~ ~ ~

  Nell crept into the Witches’ Lounge, sliding the door shut behind her, and almost caught Sophie’s hand in the process. Oops.

  Holding a finger to her lips, she eased Sophie through the half-open door—and discovered Moira hot on her heels. The moment they were all in, she threw up a soundproofing spell two feet thick. “There, that might buy us half an hour.” Only maybe—as half of the duo that ran Realm, she was in hot demand at the moment.

  Sophie winced. “Is it slowing down any?”

  “I don’t think so.” Moira seated herself on a comfortable chair, activating a tea spell on her tablet. “I had to chase a flock of orange bunnies out of my cornflowers this morning.”

  Furry animals were the least of Nell’s current problems—not everyone setting up camp near Morgan’s castle had Marcus’s coding skills.

  Sophie sank gratefully onto the couch. “Kevin’s programming is getting pretty good, if you want to add him to your spell-mishaps team.”

  “He’s already been deputized.” Along with every other sane and reasonably competent coder she could find. “And Sean’s organizing a sword fight, which might at least burn enough game points to limit mischief for the rest of the afternoon.” Hard work and hard play—the standard witch recipe for crisis.

  Moira’s eyes were gentle. “How’s Jamie doing?”

  “Sticking close to Kenna.” Nell’s body still hummed with the fire power she’d poured into the circle. For now, it was doing a decent job of holding the terrible fear at bay. “And Nat’s a burr at his side.”

  It had been Nat who’d held Kenna’s lifeless body as Jamie threw all the magic of a full circle after her soul. A beacon of steady love, calling them both home. Nell had never seen a greater act of mama courage.

  And then she’d found Nat, several hours later, tucked into a lonely corner and crying a quiet bucket of tears. There were some fears that even the love of Witch Central couldn’t touch.

  “We didn’t know,” said Moira softly. “No traveler has ever gone during the day.”

  “Or taken anyone else.” Nell felt the all-too-familiar blend of terror and frustration slide over her heart—she had five years of experience with witchlings of exceptional power and magic that didn’t play by the rules.

  “The old magics are usually the ones that change the least.” Moira’s voice carried a guilt that twisted through the room like a living thing. “Morgan’s powers…”

  Yeah. The garden variety of astral travel was plenty frightening enough. A mutant form seemed like a weight they simply shouldn’t have to bear.

  “We can’t crumble.” Sophie levered herself out of the couch, seemingly finding strength in the sheer act of standing. “Marcus is still fighting, and the last thing he needs is the rest of us giving up just because it’s gotten difficult.”

  It had gotten a lot more than difficult, but Nell took her point. She and Daniel had raised a family in the shadow of life-threatening magic—and the days went by a lot better if you shoveled the fear into a garbage can and got on with the business of living.

  Time to go dispense cookies, hugs, and swords.

  ~ ~ ~

  Seeking the company of others was new and strange behavior for Marcus Buchanan. He’d wanted the sounds of laughter close by. And a reminder that the fight was never over.

  He’d found them in spades.

  He looked up and shook his head in wonderment, amusement somehow bubbling up despite the weight on his shoulders. What twelve-year-old boy wandered through the middle of a thirty-person sword fight, his nose buried in a stack of books—and emerged unscathed?

  Kevin looked up as he finished crossing the street and grinned. “Aunt Moira taught me how to set a sword-repelling spell.”

  A what? Marcus diverted an errant spellcube before it smacked the boy in the head. Or worse, woke the baby sleeping on his chest. “What on earth is that?”

  “It’s old Irish housewife magic.” Kevin set down his stack of books on the sad excuse for a table the Realm village bar set outside on sunny days. Morgan’s Castle was temporarily out of food, so business was brisk. “She says you never know when a faerie might decide to throw a teacup at you. Or a frying pan.”

  “Sounds like faeries have quite the temper,” said Marcus dryly. And Aunt Moira had quite the imagination.

  “So do some witches.” Kevin looked pointedly in Lizzie’s direction. “Are you sure it was a good idea to give her a saber?”

  Rather belatedly, but yes, he did. “I armed you and Sean—it only seems fair Lizzie can defend herself, no?” Then again, the witchling in question was currently on top of a good-sized boulder, whacking away at grown men in armor with abandon. Good thing she had nine virtual lives—or however many Jamie had granted her in honor of the day’s battle.

  Witches, thumbing their noses at fear. He was making a sizable effort to do the same. Let the dots connect how they might. Marcus waved at the waiter. “Another beer for me, and a lemonade for my young scholar friend.”

  Sean would have taken that as an insult, but Kevin grinned, pleased. “I’ve been reading, and I found something. Aunt Moira said you’re the person to ask.”

  It was hard to have a civil conversation two feet away from pitched battle, particularly when at least half the participants lacked any weapons training. “Ask about what?”

  Kevin’s eyes were very serious now. “Magical affinities. She said you’re our resident expert.”

  Indeed. Marcus Buchanan, witch geek. However, he owed young Kevin—without the travelers-live-near-water discovery, there never would have been any Realm haven. Marcus sighed and pulled a transport spellcube out of his rucksack. “Come with me.”

  When they popped out onto the ramparts of his mountain castle keep, Kevin goggled. “You never bring anyone here.”

  “I don’t.” But it was freshly warded—he and Morgan now had free run of Realm. Marcus motioned to a nearby guard. “Some refreshments, please.” />
  The man saluted and withdrew—his old castle staff didn’t talk much. By design.

  Kevin let loose something that sounded suspiciously like a snicker. “How come he’s wearing pink slippers?”

  Marcus regarded the bunny footwear in disgust. Nothing like a visitor to point out the flaws in your not-so-humble abode. “Warrior Girl magicked them, and she booby-trapped the spell seventeen ways to Friday.”

  “Hmm.” Kevin looked thoughtful. “I might be able to make it go away. I’ve been studying some of her spells.”

  “Really.” Marcus regarded the boy with significantly more interest. His aunt had sent distraction on many levels.

  “It’s what good researchers do.” Kevin leaned over the ramparts. Carefully. His twin brother would have been dangling by an ankle by now. “We read, and study, and then when you least expect it, we spring a surprise attack.”

  Oh, really. Marcus made a mental note to stick a tracking spell on the quiet little librarian who had qualified for level seven barely two weeks ago. “Laying in a strategy, are you?”

  Kevin blushed, pushing back from the ramparts. “Not yet. This level’s kind of crazy.”

  It was. And Kevin was the second-youngest arrival ever. “You did well to get here.”

  The boy looked gobsmacked.

  Bloody hell—you’d think he never handed out compliments.

  Morgan stirred on his chest, and then settled in for the second half of her nap. Time to get down to business, then. Magical affinities—those ought to bore even Kevin within the hour. Marcus nodded toward the stack of books. “What did you bring me?”

  Kevin held up his hands, a tiny whirlwind hovering over one, a rain-laden cloud floating above the other.

  Marcus blinked—small magics were far harder than they looked, and two at once was nicely done. “You’ve been practicing.”

  “Mmm.” The boy switched his gaze back and forth between his two hands, and then neatly blended the magics into a very small, very wet storm.