Cam looked helplessly at Alex. Als, she said silently, she's not your mom.
"You can say that again!" Alex shouted. "And she never will be!"
Dave Barnes joined the fray. His dark curls were churned up, corkscrewing from his head, as they only did when he'd been anxiously running his hand through his hair. Whipping off his glasses, he demanded, "What's going on in here?"
Emily began to answer, but Alex jumped in. "I met this really nice guy at school and Emily won't let me go out with him. I mean, not even in bright daylight."
"Do we know him?" Dave put his arm around his wife. "Is he someone you've known for a while, Cam?"
"He's a new guy," Dylan butted in. "He's rich and weird. Kind of a loner—"
"I didn't ask you," his father said abruptly.
"Whoa, excuse me. No normal kids allowed, right?"
Cam and Alex looked at Dylan's over-the-top outfit, sagging baggies, hugely oversized parka, fat, unlaced high-tops, two earrings in one lobe, blue-streaked blond hair, moussed at weird angles. They burst out laughing.
"Freaks." Steaming, Dylan left.
"I guess I'm not surprised this happened today," Dave mused. He kissed the top of Emily's head, then beckoned to the girls. "Come into the den." He led them through the pantry out into the front hall and opened the door to his at-home office. "There's someone you should meet. It's on his advice that we decided to be extra cautious about who you see for a while."
A thin man in a black homburg hat was sitting in the armchair next to Dave's desk. His back was to the door.
"Lordship," Dave said. Slowly, the client turned. His hat brim was low over his forehead; still, there was something luminously pale about his face. He removed his hat with bony white hands.
Cam sucked in her breath and clutched Alex's hand.
His hair was ice-white, kinky, thinning. In places his pale pink scalp showed through, shiny as silk.
"You... you're the bleacher-creature," Cam said.
"Cam," Dave scolded.
Alex breathed, "Doc."
He smiled at her, nodded.
"CYBI, he's the old policeman," Cam decided.
"CYBI?" the old man looked at Dave.
"Can You Believe It," Alex translated. Then agreed with Cam. "That witchy gray-eyed cop's partner, right?"
"Don't call her witchy," the old man said in his peculiar raspy voice. He chuckled dryly. "She prefers 'Goddess.' As for me, I don't mind 'Doc.' Certainly I prefer it to 'bleacher-creature.'"
"Doc? You're really real? I was beginning to think I dreamed you," Alex was amazed.
"I did," Cam said. "I did dream him, lots of nights. Dad, what's he doing here? Do you know him?"
Dave put an arm around Cam's shoulder an held her tight. "Baby, he's the man who arranged your adoption."
Alex paled. Well, that explained why he'd dumped her here, she thought, withdrawing her hand from Cam's.
"Then you must know my..." Cam was saying. "I mean, our real mom—"
"All in good time." The fragile old man held up his hand to stave off Cam's question. "Call me what you will, but my actual name is Karsh," he confessed. "Have you been approached yet?"
"Approached?" Alex asked.
"By the messenger," Dave explained. "The one sent to lure you to Thantos."
"Dad... Dave... you know about him?" Cam was shocked. "Are you... like us?"
"Like enough to have served and protected you these fourteen years," Karsh confided. "But no, David is not exactly like you. He is more like... like Sara was."
"My mother?" Alex stiffened.
"Your devoted protector," Karsh gently corrected her.
"I tried to tell you before," Cam whispered. "Sara wasn't our mother. She couldn't have children—"
Alex whirled on Cam. "How do you know? You don't know anything."
"I... I've been doing some research. On my computer. I was going to tell you, Als. I tried to tell you just now. But you were too busy trashing my... my mom. Or Emily, or whatever I'm supposed to call her." She turned to her father. "Does Mom know, too—about us, about the messenger?"
"No, honey," Dave said, then he looked to Karsh for help.
"I thought it best—a protective measure," Karsh explained to Cam. "For you, for her..." The old man coughed. His voice, when he spoke again, was strained; it was still coarse and grating, but barely above a whisper. "There is much you must learn, my dear ones. And little I can tell you now. But I'll..." He grinned his thin-lipped grin. "I'll give it a shot. Stay, David. You might as well. You've proven your loyalty to Camryn—and to Alexandra."
"And it's been my pleasure," Dave said. "But old friend, Lord Karsh, why didn't you tell me there were two of them? Twins."
"You might be more comfortable sitting," Karsh suggested. And they did. Dave moved piles of paper off his old brown leather sofa and they arranged themselves on it: Dave in the center, with Cam snuggling against him, Alex on his other side, leaning on the armrest, chin in hand.
"The questions," Karsh began. "The universal questions: Who are we? Where did we come from? Where are we going?" He rubbed his hands together. "Let's start at the beginning. Your beginning, actually. Not the beginning. I'm far too tired to go all the way back."
They were born, he told them, two minutes apart on a most auspicious day—October thirty-first, Halloween. One of them was born listening to owls call and bats shriek, just as the full moon was setting; the other, a moment after daylight, squinting into the rising sun. And they were named for Apollo, the sun god, and his twin sister, Artemis, the hunter.
Their mother's name was Miranda.
Chapter 12 – The Beginning
Miranda glanced out at the fading moon. Pale and full, it lingered in the morning sky. Already, the new day shone through the window. Its golden rays lit the tiny, perfect infants she held in her arms.
The first born, Artemis, stirred restlessly against her, while her sister, Apolla, but a few minutes old, slept deeply and contentedly.
Sitting beside them was their father, Aron. In his strong hands he held the magnificent necklaces he had fashioned for them, hammering delicate gold into sun and moon. For it had been foretold that their birth would bridge the day and night.
Miranda was already wearing the wondrous necklace her husband had made for her. Its pendant was a perfect circle composed of sun and moon. It cleverly matched the two amulets, the sacred charms he'd created for their children, which fit together into a perfect sphere.
Weary, Miranda closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep, aware of the fragile, warm weight of the newborns in her arms and of her husband's joy and wonder.
"Aron." There was a knock at the cottage door. "I need a word with you."
"Thantos?" Aron rose, smiling. "Come in, brother. Come see your nieces... Uncle Thantos," he added, chuckling.
"I am not alone," came the gruff reply. "And who is with me, you would not have in your home. Come out, then, come to us."
Aron went to the window. It had been clear a moment ago, its heavy shutters thrown open. Now the glass was webbed with dense, icy frost. He shook his head. What was this? Another of Thantos's tricks? His brother had been dabbling in strange magick lately.
Aron strained to see through the door. Impossible. And his own fault. He had used the precise materials and cast the proper spells to ensure the house's privacy. Not even his legendary senses—his impossibly sharp sight, hearing, sense of smell, taste, touch—could penetrate the walls.
He could feel the blinding pain, the fierce headache that came with pushing his powers to the limit, and still he could make out nothing but Thantos's shadowy bulk.
Miranda shivered. "Wait, wait," she called out in her sleep.
Aron, too, felt a sudden draft. He drew on his warmest cloak, woven by Miranda from the wool of their favorite lambs. Then he covered his beloved wife with the absurdly large quilt she had made for their babies. It smelled wonderfully of the flowers she'd used to dye the pieces and the magical herbs with which she'd filled each
lovely panel.
Again she moved restlessly. And flailing Artemis stretched out her tiny fist to him. "I'll be back, my darlings," Aron promised, starting for the door.
Just as he reached the handle, Apolla awoke with a cry. On impulse, Aron hurried back to them. He slipped their amulets, on, kissed Miranda and each of his daughters, and, with a heavy, incomprehensible sorrow, left them.
Forever.
Some time later, Karsh entered the cottage. He used the key Lord Aron had entrusted to him. Bowed by grief, Karsh sighed miserably as he saw the still-sleeping Miranda.
Something stirred beneath her quilt; some creature squirmed in the crook of her arm. Karsh stared, amazed, as a tiny clenched hand, no bigger than an acorn, emerged from beneath the coverlet.
Holding his breath, the old tracker tiptoed to the couch. There he saw the babies. One of them, the one who'd shaken a miniature fist at him, wriggled fretfully in her sleep; the other one was wide-awake but silent, calm, content.
Karsh hurried back to the door. "Come, young witch. Hurry. Miranda has had her babies," he called.
"I don't want to be a witch," the sullen teenager, his ward and protégée replied. "Witches are ugly and have warts and wretched hair—"
"You read far too many mainland magazines, Ileana," Karsh gently scolded her. "Come, child, it is an inspiring sight on such an evil day."
Flinging back her long, silky hair, Ileana reluctantly entered the cottage. Her beautiful face was pale and tense from the ugliness she had just witnessed. There were angry tears in her striking gray eyes—eyes the same color as Aron's had been. And in her delicate hands she carried the handsome lamb's-wool robe Lord Aron had been wearing. It was sticky, still wet with blood.
Ileana, sixteen years old, about to turn seventeen, quietly crossed the room. Karsh realized the girl was shaking. He reached to put an arm about her but she shrugged him away. "I am perfectly fine, old warlock. I don't need comforting," she announced.
Prideful, like her abandoning father, Karsh thought. And yet he adored the child. For in addition to her arrogance, Ileana had an unquenchable curiosity that kept her humble—whether she liked it or not. There was nothing in the world of witches and warlocks or, for that matter, in all the vast mainland that she did not want to know, experience, experiment with, and improve. She was an avid and demanding pupil. And Karsh enjoyed nothing better than teaching young fledglings how to sharpen and use their skills.
Still clutching the bloody cloak, Ileana bent down to examine Artemis. The infant's weaving hands caught hold of the teenager's hair and tugged at it with awesome force. Delighted as she was surprised, Ileana cried out.
At last, Miranda awoke—startling Apolla, whose little wrist was twisted in her golden necklace.
Ileana untangled the chain. "Oh, but this one is exquisite, too," she remarked.
"My daughters," Miranda smiled sleepily. "Do they not resemble their father's illustrious family?" She noticed the robe then. Caught the scent of wool first. The wool and something else. Something overpowering and bitter. "Aron?" she exclaimed, then saw the blood.
Miranda began to thrash. She ripped her husband's cloak from Ileana's hands and buried her face in it.
Quickly, Karsh rescued the babies. He handed them to Ileana and put his arms around their grief-stricken mother. He rocked her as she screamed in horror. He held her thrashing head against his chest and crooned comfortingly to her even when, in an effort to silence her own earsplitting screams, she sank her teeth into his shoulder.
Finally, she wore herself out and grew quiet, shuddering and trembling.
Ileana took the newborn twins outside, while Karsh rinsed Aron's blood from Miranda's face and hair. "Tell me, Miranda, when did he leave and why?" the white-haired old warlock asked.
"Thantos came," she answered dully. Karsh nodded and tenderly wiped her cheeks, her closed eyes. She had stopped crying. And shivering. She had, in fact, stopped everything but rocking back and forth. "Thantos called him. Aron asked him in, but Thantos would not enter. Aron left to speak to his brother—"
Pacing just outside the door, Ileana heard. She held the babies tightly, muttering under her breath. Lord Thantos, Aron's own brother, had murdered their father. Had left them fatherless, just as she had been left... Ah, but these two still had a mother. The magnificent and powerful Miranda. Who called out suddenly:
"My babies? Karsh, where are my babies?!"
Ileana returned to the couch. "Here, Lady Miranda. Here are the little ones. They're well. And I'll keep them that way—for as long as you wish. No one will hurt them, great lady. No one. Ever!"
Miranda did not look at her daughters. Instead, she studied Ileana's face, strangely, her eyes drifting unfocused over every feature as if trying but failing to memorize it. "Who are you?" she asked in the barest whisper.
"Ileana," Ileana replied. "I am Lord Karsh's ward—"
"I know you. I know your father. Please do not harm my children. Please, I beg you!"
Chapter 13 – Free Eddie
"David?" There was a gentle knock at the door. "I'm sorry to disturb you, but dinner is ready. Perhaps your client would like to join us?"
"It's Emily," David told the old man. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize how late it's gotten. Can you stay?"
"Oh, please, say yes," Cam urged him. "You can't leave now."
"She's a terrific cook," Alex promised. Cam raised an eyebrow at her. "I didn't say she was the Mother of the Year," her twin grumbled.
"My goodness," Karsh said, "it's nearly dark outside. Ileana will be furious with me. She's waiting to take me home—"
"Ileana, your partner?" Cam asked. "Is she the same one who saved us when we were little?"
Karsh nodded. "From that terrible day forward, she's been pledged to guide and protect you." He stood slowly and began gathering some old documents from Dave's desk. "You mustn't make her work so difficult." He chuckled.
"Difficult?" Cam echoed, then clapped a hand over her mouth, as Emily asked through the door, "I'm sorry. What did you say?"
"Give us a minute, Em." Dave looked at Karsh, who shook his head. "I'm afraid my client won't be joining us," he said, "but we'll be out soon."
Cam jumped up. "But you can't—" she began.
"Leave you?" Karsh shook his head. "Never—so long as I have life left. I made that promise long ago." He glanced at Dave, as if asking his permission to go on, and Dave understood and nodded. "I made that promise to your dying father—"
"And to our mother?" Cam wanted to know.
"Yes," the old warlock said sadly. "Though I was never sure that she heard me."
"Well, where is she then?" Alex demanded. "And where has she been all these years?"
Karsh continued to sort through the documents. When he didn't answer Alex's question, Cam threw another one at him. "Will we be able to contact you when we need you? I mean, do we go through Dave, or what?"
Dave shook his head. "I have no way of reaching him," he said quietly.
"Regretfully," Karsh confirmed, "there is no way." He turned to Dave. "I've left you the birth and death certificates. And filled in, to the best of my knowledge, the other information you requested—"
"Where is she?!" Alex repeated. "And why should we believe you? Why should we believe anything you say?"
Finally, the old man looked at her. "I'm sorry, Artemis. Alexandra. Which do you prefer?"
"Alexandra," Alex said definitely.
Karsh nodded. "I know how deeply you miss Sara. I know how devoted you were to each other. Like David, Sara had excellent instincts and intuitions. Far greater than the average person. Her senses were finely honed, though nothing compared to yours and your sister's. You are both already far advanced as seers and healers. Even in infancy, it was clear that you were as extraordinary as had been predicted. At some other time and place, perhaps Sara might have developed her own skills and gone beyond being an adept. In time, she might have become a guardian. But she chose, as did David, to be a prote
ctor, to use all of her gifts to guide and guard a more skilled fledgling—"
"Fledgling. There's that dumb word again," Alex cut him off. "We're not baby birds. We're human—"
"Or are we?" Cam whispered.
"Indeed you are," Karsh assured them. "All too human. Did you imagine that witches and warlocks were a race apart? So many of limited vision and shriveled spirits have thought that way," Karsh said, surprising Cam and Alex with a note of pained bitterness.
He cleared his throat. His voice, however, never sounded clear, but grating and, more often recently, weak. "We are human beings—all of us. Even," Karsh couldn't help adding with a grin, "that inept but goodhearted son of yours, David. Dylan. The boy has possibilities."
T*Witches: Building a Mystery Page 8
