The Source (Witching Savannah, Book 2)

by Horn, J. D.

  “Oh, Mercy, from your perspective, I can see why you think he drags me down. That’s because you are only judging on what is visible from the outside. You don’t know the innumerable times he has pulled me up.” She tilted her head, her blonde hair falling at an angle around an angelic face. Her cornflower-blue eyes were no longer looking directly at me. Instead, they fell to a spot on the floor between us. “I was nearly mad. No, I was mad with grief after I lost Erik and our son. I didn’t want to live in this world without them anymore. I tried to keep things together, at least until they had been buried. The night after the funeral—” She stopped talking as large wet drops fell from her eyes. “I took a razor and slit my wrists.” I gasped at this revelation. “I wanted to end it. I wanted to die so badly I didn’t mind the pain. I didn’t mind the blood. I didn’t mind the thought of one of you finding me. I was in such torment, I couldn’t find a single ray of light to pierce it.”

  She looked up at me, the horror in her eyes cutting into me as a razor had once cut into her flesh. “I couldn’t die, Mercy. My own powers wouldn’t let me. The cuts healed almost as quickly as I could make them.” She stood and walked over to my window, looking out on the perfect day. “After four or five hours, I gave up. I poured myself a drink. I cleaned up the mess. I went to bed.” She turned back toward me. “The next day, I ran into Tucker down on River Street. He was in the process of moving into his office.”

  “And he took advantage of your pain.”

  “No. No.” She rushed forward and sat next to me and grasped my hands. “Look at me,” she commanded, and I did. “He didn’t take advantage of me. He let me take advantage of him.” I said nothing, but my doubt must have been obvious. “Not that it is truly any of your business,” she said, “but we enjoyed almost two years as friends before we ever acted on our attraction to each other.”

  “He didn’t need you for sex. He had Tillandsia for that.”

  Ellen’s eyes flashed wide with anger, but she regained control. “You’re right. He didn’t need me for sex. He didn’t need me for money. He didn’t need me for anything. He wanted me. He has been a true friend to me for years.”

  “A true friend who hits on your nieces.”

  “I’ve spoken to him about that. He has promised me that he will never approach you to participate in Tillandsia again. He’s leaving the group himself. He’s organizing the renovation of their new meetinghouse, and then he’s done.”

  “Ellen,” I said, exasperated. “His promises are worth nothing. He’s not a good man. He is just no good, plain and simple.”

  “Peter thinks he’s good enough to take on as a business partner.”

  “Yeah, and I am not thrilled about that either, but at least it’s only business. There are laws to help keep him in line, but you gotta know Tucker will never be faithful to you. He’s incapable of it. It isn’t in his DNA.”

  “Yes. I know that. I know exactly what kind of man I am getting with Tucker. I don’t have to question if he’s lying to me. I know that he will lie if it is more convenient for him than telling me the truth.” She laughed at a joke she hadn’t shared. “And I sure as hell don’t have to lie awake nights crying and wondering if he’s cheating on me, because I know that if he is not in bed next to me, he is making love to someone else.” She paused and looked deeply into my eyes. “That’s who he is. He is a liar and a cheat, but he is also so kind and loving toward me. When he’s with me, I know it’s because there is no one else he’d rather be with at that moment. When he makes love to me, it’s truly me he wants. With Erik, I knew his body would be with me, while his heart and mind were with your mother.”

  It nearly took my breath away to hear her say that; I hated that my very existence was due to her husband’s infidelity, but I knew she wasn’t saying it out of cruelty. “Besides, he doesn’t run from the magic like most men. I think the strangeness he senses around me is part of what attracts him to me. Don’t judge me, sweetheart. And don’t judge Tucker. It’s true he’s a bastard, but he isn’t hiding any kind of ulterior motives. With Tucker, what you see truly is what you get.”

  “But Ellen, you deserve better.”

  “Oh, sweet girl, you have no idea what I deserve, but I need you to understand something. Tucker is nowhere near perfect, but he makes me happy in ways no one else can.”

  “I don’t want to hear any more of this,” I said and stood, heading for the door.

  “Mercy,” Ellen called out, sharply enough to get me to stop in my tracks and turn back toward her. “Tucker has asked me to marry him.” She gave me a few seconds to register her words fully. “I’ve said yes.”

  ELEVEN

  Ellen stood and left me standing there, my mouth still hanging open. I decided that getting out of the house was indeed the best thing to do. I spun the chair she’d been sitting in around and sat down in front of the mirror. I ran a brush through my hair as I argued with people who weren’t even there. Peter held the first position on my list. Tucker had managed to manipulate my fiancé into going into business with him. Tucker was looking to worm his way into the family, and their partnership had helped legitimize the bastard. In a separate confrontation, I had an imaginary conversation with Ellen, telling her that she was out of her cotton-picking mind if she thought I’d act as bridesmaid. Then I realized that I was acting petty, even if only in my own imagination.

  I put down the brush and looked at myself in the mirror. The woman I saw squinted angrily back at me. I didn’t like what I saw. I didn’t like how my feelings toward Tucker affected me. Maybe the man truly was trying to change? Maybe he was helping Peter get started in business as an olive branch to me? Ellen seemed to think he was worthy. Maybe I should do my best to accept him? Then the wave broke, and my dislike for the man washed over the levee of tolerance I’d started to build. Anyone other than Tucker.

  I needed a quiet place to stop the noise in my head. I put on some sunscreen and moisturizer, a touch of pink lip gloss, and then drew on a little eyeliner. I changed into a very modest, nearly formal sundress with a collar that covered me up to the clavicle and a skirt that fell a tad below the knee. Then I went to church.

  Other buildings had jostled their way in, robbing the towers of St. John’s Cathedral of their position as the most prominent feature in the Savannah skyline. None, though, had matched their soaring beauty. However, like an allegory in stucco, the French Gothic beauty of the exterior couldn’t begin to match the grace of the vaulted interior. I stepped through the doors, instantly comforted by the haint blue of the cathedral’s spangled ceiling and arches. I took a seat in the second row behind the font, and sat quietly, enjoying the play of the light that was filtering through the stained glass windows. My family and I weren’t Catholic. We weren’t Protestant. Frankly, we weren’t allied with any formal religion, but I had always loved St. John’s. Regardless of your religious affiliation, a sense of peace and holiness filled the cathedral. Tourists filtered inside, most of them appropriately respectful of the sanctity of the place, others a tad too boisterous as they snapped their photos. Loud or quiet, all were struck by the beauty they encountered. I closed my eyes, letting their exclamations and the sound of clicking cameras weave into a tapestry of prayer. A prayer for guidance. A prayer for humility.

  “Pardon me, miss.” A voice startled me. My eyes snapped open. “I am so sorry to disturb you,” a congenial-looking grandfather in a straw fedora and plaid shorts said. “Is your name Mercy?”

  “Yes,” I said nodding, confused.

  “Your mother asked me to tell you that she is waiting outside for you.”

  “Thank you,” I said, my heart leaping. I jumped up and hurried out of the church. I stood on the top step and scanned the camera-toting crowd at the foot of the steps for my mother’s face, but I couldn’t spot her. I looked up and down the road, trying to catch sight of her car, but it was nowhere to be seen.

  “Don’t you
look pretty?” My mother’s voice projected itself out of another woman’s mouth. I rushed down the steps and up to a plump, middle-aged woman wearing an oversized neon-green St. Augustine T-shirt.

  “Mama?” I asked, trying to reconcile the sound of my mother’s voice coming out of the stranger’s bright mauve lips. I looked deeply into the woman’s eyes, the lids of which had been painted nearly to the brow in dark turquoise.

  “Yes, in a way. I’m borrowing this body for a few moments. I cannot hold it for long, but I needed to tell you I am thinking of you always. I am creating a sanctuary for us, a place where we can speak freely, and I can take the time to get to know my beautiful daughter. I will send for you as soon as I can.”

  This was ridiculous. She had to come home and face her sisters. She couldn’t keep running. “But I have so many questions now. I need to understand what happened. I’m confused, Mama.” I said, but the woman just shook her head, looking at me as if I were mad.

  “If you think I’m your mother, you sure are.” She walked several feet away from me, keeping a concerned eye on me until the friends she’d been waiting on made their way out of the church. She whispered to her cohorts, and the other two turned to glance at me. “Don’t look at her!” the first woman said. “Let’s just get out of here.” At that, the other two started laughing, and all three made their raucous way to the next stop on the tour. I’d just been marked down as another of Savannah’s oddities, but frankly that was the least of my concerns.

  TWELVE

  As we pulled into the parking area next to Magh Meall, I spotted a sign on the door reading “Closed for Private Function.” Most of those attending the wake had never met the guest of honor, but I had more reason than most to raise a toast to Peadar. A week had passed since the old man’s eyes had closed for the last time. I pushed away the memory of how it had felt to have his body rise beneath my magic only to fall charred to the ground. I knew that many of the tavern’s regulars would be here tonight: those who came to drink, those who came to play music, and those who came to do both. Claire and Colin had drafted Peter to work behind the bar, so I had caught a ride with Iris and Oliver.

  Ellen and Tucker’s wedding announcement had been published on the society page the previous day. “People will expect us to arrive together,” she’d said to explain why she’d chosen to ride with Tucker rather than the rest of us. I hated to think of her permanently attached to the man, but at the end of the day, I didn’t get to have a say. I prayed she would find happiness and adjust as well to married life as Iris had to being single.

  I could not help but admire the way Iris had blossomed since Connor’s passing. Her style no longer reflected his insecurities, but instead the beautiful woman she was, inside and out. Tonight she wore a new black dress that hit her slightly below the knee, modest in cut and color, but seductive in the way it clung to her trim frame.

  Oliver had donned a black single-breasted suit and a thin black tie; the two shades of black matched to a degree that only Oliver’s expert eye could have managed. I wore a sage-green tea-length dress Ellen had picked out for me. Not the best shade for mourning, but the dress flattered me, fitting my growing stomach perfectly. It made me feel pretty, and by God, that would be enough for tonight.

  Oliver parked our car very near the entrance but in a no-parking zone. He looked over his shoulder at me and winked. “They don’t mean us,” he said. I knew for a fact that the man had never had to pay a parking ticket in his life. Since we hadn’t blocked a fire hydrant or anything, and since my feet were swelling in the shoes I’d let vanity talk me into wearing, I met his wink with a smile. “You two stay put,” he said, as he hopped out and opened first Iris’s door, then mine.

  “It’s wonderful to have you home,” Iris said, affection for her little brother suffusing her voice and expression. He closed the doors and offered each of us one of his arms, leading us toward the door that swung open as we neared it.

  “If it isn’t my beautiful soon-to-be daughter-in-law,” Colin said, leaning forward to plant a wet, whiskey-laced kiss on my cheek. “It means the world to Claire that you and your family are here tonight. It means the world to both of us.” Another kiss, and Oliver maneuvered me over the threshold. “Ellen will arrive shortly,” Oliver explained.

  “We got the beautiful flowers she sent—they are over by the display Claire has set up for our Peadar.” He forced a smile onto his face. “And speaking of Ellen, I look forward to congratulating Tucker on finally getting her to make an honest man out of him.”

  “That would indeed count as quite a feat,” Iris said. She felt no more enthusiasm for the impending nuptials than I did.

  “Perhaps we could make it a double wedding?” Colin asked me good-naturedly.

  “Not a chance,” Oliver responded. “You never want to see two Taylor women competing for the same spotlight. Trust me, it’s easy to get burned.” He put his arm around Colin’s shoulders and led him toward the whiskey.

  I looked across the room, to where Peter was beaming at me from behind the bar. Our eyes met, and I felt the baby move. “That’s right, little man,” I said. “That’s your daddy.” I moved toward the bar, and he leaned over it to kiss me deeply, hungrily. Another taste of whiskey. His face looked a little flushed, and his eyes were moist. His Irish was showing.

  “There you are, my love,” Claire said, coming over and taking me in her arms.

  “Can I help somehow?”

  “Oh, no, we’ve got everything under control. Have you seen the memorial to Peadar?”

  “No, not yet,” I responded.

  “Here, let me show you.” She led me across the bar to a long table that had been draped with a white tablecloth. Two large vases of white roses paired with blue lisianthus and yellow irises, one of Ellen’s favorite bouquets, anchored the ends of the table. A large black-and-white photo of a young man, dark with a mischievous grin, stood in the middle, flanked by white column candles and smaller photos of Peadar from over the years (the 1970s?—the ’80s?), the dark hair graying, and crow’s feet lining the corners of his eyes. There was also a Polaroid similar to the one found by Detective Cook, this one showing Peadar standing between Claire and Colin and holding his infant namesake, Peter.

  “It’s hard to believe that scrawny little baby grew into the man behind the bar,” I said, as I could find nothing else to say about the older stranger whose life we had gathered to celebrate.

  Claire’s face darkened for a moment, but then she glanced over at her son, and her smile returned full force. “Isn’t it, though?” She turned back to the memorial. “We didn’t have many photos to use. That one was the day we brought Peter home from the hospital. This one here,” she said, touching the Polaroid’s thick bottom border, “this was the last time we saw Peadar. He and Colin’s father had a falling out, and then . . . well, then nothing.” She tried to choke back tears. “I’m sorry. I can’t bear the thought that he may have been murdered.” I wanted to tell her that he hadn’t been murdered. That he hadn’t died alone either. I would have to soon, but not here and certainly not now. “He was so dear, so innocent.”

  “I could tell,” I said, prompting a look of confusion from Claire. “From the photos,” I said, although the photographs reflected none of the innocence I’d seen in Peadar’s eyes. “He looks like a very nice man.”

  She pulled a tissue from her pocket and dabbed at her eyes. “I should get back to the kitchen, see how things are going there.” She gave me a quick hug and a pat on the stomach. I noticed that Ellen was arriving with a sheepish Tucker in tow. He wore a canary-swallowing smile and was readily accepting the many handshakes and pats that were coming his way. In that moment I hated myself. The man did look happy. He did seem to be in love. Who was I to question Ellen’s choices? I realized that I had to put on my big-girl pants and apologize to her.

  A chorus of “The Girl I Left Behind Me” broke out near t
he bar, being led, much to my amusement, by Oliver. A player near the bandstand whipped out a mandolin. Uilleann pipes droned awake and moments later a fiddle joined in, followed by a banjo. Voices from every corner joined in. Iris had put down her drink and was dancing with Colin. Now this was an Irish wake. I hadn’t managed to save Peadar, but looking around, feeling the music move through me, I felt happy. I took a seat near the memorial that gave me a decent view of the bandstand.

  A hand touched my shoulder, and I looked over to find Detective Cook standing behind me. “Still the life of the party, isn’t he?”

  It felt somehow disloyal to discuss Oliver with Cook. “I don’t think you should have come tonight,” I said. “This is a private event, and I didn’t see the name ‘Detective’ on the guest list.” I was all too aware that the two had been involved. Their secret romance had ended in tragedy years ago, a tragedy involving Jilo’s granddaughter, Grace. For years, Oliver’s guilt had driven his whole life, and even though he would never confess it, I knew that he would give his own life to right the wrong he had done. I saw no such remorse in the detective.

  “Oh, I was invited, all right,” he said, showing me the pint of beer in his hand.

  “So you are here as a private citizen, not a policeman, then?”

  “That depends on whether you have something you are trying to hide,” he said, but the twinkle in his eyes indicated that he was pulling my leg.

  “Oh, Detective Cook, my life is nothing these days if not an open book.”

  He took a sip from his beer. “You know, you could call me ‘Adam’ if you’d like. I’m not your enemy. Matter of fact, I am one of the best friends you have in this room.”

  “I will reserve judgment on that.” I paused. “Adam. However, I’m more than willing to do away with formalities if you will quit calling me ‘Miss Taylor.’ ”