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Also by Marianne Stillings
The Damsel in This Dress
Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evie
Sighs Matter
Arousing Suspicions
Satisfaction
Killer Charms
Romance in the Rain
Spellbound in Seattle
By
Shannon O’Brien
Chapter 1
The otters were at it again, playing or fighting or just bugging the hell out of me for the sheer fun of it. I dug out of the blankets and squinted at the bedside clock. Blood-red numbers hovering in darkness glared back: 12:13.
Thump, bump-ump.
“Really, dudes?” I croaked and tossed back the blanket. My toes dug into soft wooly slippers. The soles of my feet and the tops of my thighs ached with every zombie stomp across the bedroom, a peppering reminder of the abuse I’d put my body through when recently adding jogging to my power-walk routine.
I shuffled through the living room, a pang of sadness slipping between my ribs and wrapping around my lungs with the knowledge annoying furry mammals were the only nighttime guests I got anymore. Days and months and years battered the “Rose McCarty’s Gone Fishing” sign posted across my heart, the once shiny paint and crisp lettering now dull and chipped.
Three years since I’d made the decision to remain alone.
Three years since Michael died.
Three years and I was still alive.
Moonlight caught on the water, pale satin caressing dark ripples. The neighboring floating homes lining the narrow channel were serene as corks bobbing on a pond. I pressed my face to the sliding glass door and peered at the back deck. One rosemary plant had been tipped over and black soil trickled from the lip of the pot. No other movement. The door slid open with a quiet see-whoosh. Cool autumn air swirled in and my arms broke out in goose bumps. After three years, the scents of Seattle’s Lake Union still mesmerized me; oily boat fuel, sweet water grasses and the briny scent of decay and wet wood. Invigorating.
I breathed deep and then gulped at another thump bump-ump. My finger caressed the switch for the outside floodlight, but I hesitated. Subtle senses warned me to remain in the dark. For as much as I hated being a witch, I knew better than to ignore the signs. Uneasy pinky fingers, churning stomach and the most infuriating one, the noose around my neck. The worse my premonition, the tighter my throat constricted.
The last time my senses went wacko, the pressure made me black out. The night Michael was killed.
I craned my head around the door and homed in on the object making the thumping noise. No otters tonight, just a small dinghy wedged between my floating home and Harold Martin’s floating nursery. I swear, that man had enough plant species draping off his gutters and gangplanks to put the Arboretum to shame.
The little white boat didn’t belong to me or my neighbors. Yawning, I mentally planned on securing it in the morning and post something on the Floating Home Association’s Facebook page so the owner could collect it later.
As I began to tug the door closed, a soft moan from near the boat glided through the air.
Frozen, I strained to listen. Could the houses rocking against their pillars have made that sound? The water often played tricks with one’s head. The moan sounded again “Ohhh…” low and garbled. The pinky on my hand gripping the door began to twitch faster than a frog in a science experiment.
My body quivered, begging me to slam the door shut and light calming candles.
My brain growled, ordering me to grow some balls and get out there.
Three years and I was still alive.
Humph, you’re alive because you don’t take chances, said my exasperated conscience.
Just playing it safe, common sense retorted.
Alive and living are not the same thing. You can’t change the past, so stop being a wuss.
“Fine.” I flicked the switch and conducted a quick sweep of the night. Queen Anne hovered over the still water, the hill twinkling with a million lights. The hexes around my property protected me from humans and beasts and spells meaning me harm. Regardless of my strong witchy powers, I couldn’t stop my limbs from quaking.
I puffed my cheeks and exhaled hard. I didn’t think, I only moved. My deck rocked slightly under my weight as I padded a couple of steps and then stopped.
A dark lump lay in the shadow near the side of my house, a foot or so out of reach of the light. The form was too large to be a river otter, maybe a sea lion? They sometimes snuck through the Ballard Locks connecting Puget Sound to the lakes.
The lump shifted and rolled to its side. Dark jean-clad legs stretched out and black boots smacked the deck. A gray hoody hid the man’s features.
“Rose,” he moaned. “Rose…”
My heart skidded to a stop. It had been years since I’d last heard my name uttered in that accent.
I grabbed my kayak paddle and held it in front of me, elbows out and grip tight enough to swing the game-winning hit.
“Who are you?” I whispered.
“Michael,” the man groaned back.
The little boat knocked against the deck and my heart knocked against my ribs.
“Michael’s dead, dumbass.” I nudged his foot with the tip of the paddle. “Tell me who you are or I’m calling the police.”
The man rolled to a seated position and I took a giant step back.
“In the light.”
The stranger scooted into the patch of light, his shoulders heaving with harsh breaths.
“Let me see you.” My voice cracked but the inflection still strong.
Beefy hands slid over his face, pushed the hood and exposed midnight-black hair, thick and wavy in that sensual Man of Steel way. He tipped his chin and stared straight into my soul. Michael’s sapphire eyes stared out of the stranger’s face.
My breath snagged in my chest and I bounced on the balls of my feet, torn between running toward him and fleeing back into the house. Leaden feet rooted me to the spot. I squinted, lowering the paddle, momentarily dazed. What the hell was going on? Who was this guy?
“Rose?” His expression held a hint of confusion and irritation. Then he sniggered. “Michael always had a soft spot for blondes, but not usually ones with s’much spunk.”
I propped the oar against the lounge chair, fear be damned. This stranger was related to my dead boyfriend and I couldn’t just leave him out on my deck.
“C’mon big boy, I can’t carry you.” I squatted and slipped his arm around the back of my neck. He staggered to his feet, his body shivering as he pressed to my side. We stumbled into the house and he landed on the couch with a gruff huff. I jogged back and closed the sliding glass door, taking another quick glance of the exterior. Nothing else seemed to be out there.
Touching matches to wicks, I murmured fresh enchantments and inhaled the relaxing scents of sage, rosemary and eucalyptus as the candles came to life. Once done, a perfect ring of light surrounded me and my mysterious guest.
I turned and inspected the man. He sat in the middle of the leather sofa, feet spread wide, elbows resting on knees, face cradled in two humongous hands. His jeans stretched tight over muscular thighs and biceps strained against sleeves. I imagined an exhausted construction worker taking a much needed break would look much the same.
Clutching my cell, I glared at the Irishman. “You have ten seconds to tell me what’s going on before I call 9-1-1.” Whether this man was related to Michael or not, my bravery only went so far.
Chapter 2
The woman peered down her freckled nose and a rush of emotions jumbled through my gut, tangling my diaphragm into a knot so tight I almost couldn’t breathe. Happiness, desperation and anger surged and receded with each pump of my heart.
She’s mine. She is Michael’s. She’s so beautiful. She’s not in love with m
e. And I really could not be in love with her. But I was.
Goddamned witches.
Her doe-eyed gaze searched my face, skipping from my hair to my eyes, to my lips and then back to my eyes. I knew what she saw. The resemblance between me and my younger brother could be unsettling. The only real difference between our appearances, besides our build, was the color of our hair. Our hair matched our personalities. He had been light and happy, I’m dark and moody.
And I wasn’t in love with the blonde standing over me looking like I’d sucker-punched her.
“I’m not him.” My tone came out harsher than I’d meant. My heart pumped faster, a new feeling rushed through my system and punched the other emotions away. Damned guilt. Guilt I wasn’t around when he died. Guilt it took me three years to come to America. Guilt for being in love with a woman I’d never met. “Michael was m’brother.”
“P-Patrick?”
Relief softened the squint of her eyes and the pucker of her lips. Rose’s hand fluttered to a silver necklace, the lower half obscured by her pajama top. She set the mobile phone on the kitchen bar and gazed around the room.
“He talked about you all the time. Did you move here from Ireland? Why didn’t you come earlier? Why didn’t you call? Why were you on my back deck? Why are you here?” Her words tumbled on top of each other, a cascading waterfall of questions.
I stood, testing my legs. “Could I have some water?”
She bit her lower lip, twirled around and marched into the dark kitchen. Glasses clanged, cupboards banged and the faucet ran.
Rose returned and handed me a tall glass. I eyed her as I swallowed, letting the cool water wash away the residual heat from rowing across the lake. The clinical portion of my cerebrum made a slow perusal of the young woman. She appeared extraordinary in an ordinary way. The girl wore chunky slippers and red flannel pajamas dotted with gray bunnies. But she made the sleepwear look sexy. Her long champagne hair stuck out in all directions and a smudge of old mascara hung beneath her eye. But she looked sexy. She was no sleek runway model, her hips were too curvy and her bust too busty. And she was so, so sexy.
And she’s not mine.
I squeezed my eyes and blindly thrust the glass out for her to take. Her fingers brushed mine, sparks raced along my arm and my eyes popped open. She felt it too, I could tell. Her pupils widened, making her eyes nearly black with arousal.
Without realizing it, I stepped sideways and broke our contact. I stomped around the couch, my boots pounding against the floorboards. With the heavy piece of furniture between us, a wee bit of calmness stole over me.
I set the glass on the coffee table and rubbed my hands together. But it didn’t do any good. The electricity from our brief contact pulsed and settled in my chest. My poor heart seemed to have been assaulted by a supernatural defibrillator. It hadn’t beat this hard and fast since the last time I kissed Michael.
My throat constricted but I swallowed hard, the discomfort was only a lump of surprise and not a forewarning of doom. Well, maybe a forewarning of sorts, a physical reminder I had no business Jonesing for another Kerrigan boy. Or Kerrigan man. Michael had been twenty-one when he’d died and I knew his brother was six years older. The thirty-year-old hiding behind the sofa was not my old boyfriend. Michael had been tall and gangly, wore his heart on his sleeve and shared a brilliant smile with everyone. Patrick’s surly gaze shook me to the core.
Those blue eyes were the same as Michael’s only shot through with brittle ice instead of tropical warmth. Patrick’s handsome face had a concrete-hard, shrewd edge. His perfect lips tightened and then the upper one curled as he regarded me. His eyes narrowed into a feral predatory glare.
Patrick personified every bad boy every mother warned their daughters about since the beginning of time.
I cleared my throat. “Better now?”
He gave a quick nod, just a slight dip of the chin. But he sure didn’t look better. He looked… hungry.
Breathe, Rose. Breathe and focus.
“Good. Why the hell are you here and what the hell is going on?” I sounded stronger than I felt. There were many reasons why I trembled in front of the stranger. Besides fear and confusion, I longed to hear that Irish accent again. Michael’s had been subtle, always trying to blend in with the rest of us nasally Americans. But Patrick’s enunciation was Belfast rugged complete with rolling “r’s” and a big fat chip on its shoulder.
He ran his tongue across his bottom lip, cocked his head and stared over my shoulder. “I seemed t’have gotten tangled up with a doppelganger and a horde of hippy witches claiming t’be friends of yers.”
My shaky pulse turned into sludge. “Josie.”
“Yeah, her and the other lassies.”
“Humph. ‘Lassies’ are one thing the Vashon Island witches are not.” I eyeballed him, checking him out with my paranormal bullshit-detecting senses. I took a deep breath. “Did they… do things to you?”
Steely eyes raked mine and then they settled on the unseen object behind me. That flick was answer enough—the bitches had no right charming anyone associated with me.
“Look,” I said and jammed one fist on my hip while flipping hair off my shoulder with my other hand. “I’m not like them. I don’t dabble in the dark arts. In fact, I don’t dabble in anything unless it involves monitoring orca whales, sockeye salmon and giant Pacific octopus. I have a respectable research position at the University of Washington and I lead a quiet, spell-free life.” Heat flamed my cheeks. “Well, ‘spell-free’ with the exception of the enchantment I keep around my home. A small insurance policy after what happened to Michael.”
Once the last sentence exited my mouth, the air around us seemed to dampen with muggy heat—an odd sensation for Seattle in October.
I didn’t want to recall the night Michael died. But that cruel gaze shot across the room and shattered my resolve. The muscles in my arms and legs jerked as my body sank into antsy composure.
Chapter 3
Rose fidgeted like a meth-head in dire need of another hit. But part of me thrilled knowing she wasn’t bat-shite-crazy. Michael always had a good head about him.
A scene of the ritual flashed behind my eyes; blazing bonfire, angry chanting, bitter teas and unwilling surrender. I shoved a hand through my hair while my other curled into a fist. A new pain lashed my gut from the memory of losing control. I never lost control.
“Out of all I just said, the thing that bothered you most were your freaky friends? Did you even hear me say doppelganger?”
She ballooned her cheeks and softened her stance. “I heard you. I’ve never come across one before but they’re pretty benign from what I understand. They stay with one family. They taunt and tease and mess around with their human prior to death, and then they escort the soul to Heaven. They sort of disappear until the next family member is set to expire.” She waived her slim hand around, candlelight glinting off a couple of silver rings. “Or something like that.”
My gaze took the reins, slowly inspecting the young woman from mussed head to Ugg slippers. By the time I made it back to her face, her cheeks and ears had morphed into a delicious cherry-red blush. All the blood in my body rushed straight to my knob and I shifted around, hoping she wouldn’t notice.
The only reason she affects me so is because of them lunatic witches.
“Yeah, something like that,” I finally muttered. “’Cept when their human is taken without the doppelganger’s permission. Such as the case with Michael.”
The fear I had been anticipating finally bloomed through her big brown eyes. “Wha–what are you saying? That Michael’s soul never made it to Heaven?”
“Aye. And his doppelganger, or ‘fetch’ as they’re known in Irish folklore, has been roaming the planet looking for the incubus who slew m’brother and stole his spirit.”
Rose’s expression changed from fear to a detached contemplation; manicured brows scrunched together and her bottom lip slipped between straight teeth.
&nb
sp; “I thought incubi only slept with human women to get them pregnant,” she said matter-of-factly. “Are you sure it wasn’t a succubus—a female demon—that killed Michael?”
The knot in my stomach tightened. “Weren’t you there? Don’t you know?”
She shrugged and wrapped her arms around her stomach, giving herself a hug. “It was dark and loud and I sorta passed out. When I woke, Michael was a mangled mess on the sidewalk four stories below our dorm.”
Ah, shite.
I was overcome with an irrational urge to replace her arms with mine. To hold her close. To rub away the deep line nestled between her brows.
I didn’t shift an effin’ muscle.
Instead, I said, “You know, I had no idea witches and ghosts and demons actually existed. Two weeks ago I was minding my business, practicing law in Dublin and making a crap-load of money. Now I’ve got m’brother’s twin tailing me, witches getting in m’head and you standing there lickin’ yer chops like yer about to eat a feast.” Her eyes flashed, irritation laced with embarrassment. “Stop staring at me like that. I’m not Michael.” Mean words I needed to utter and she needed to hear.
“I know you’re not Michael,” she snapped. “And you better get a grip, crazy eyes, this is my house and you will treat me with respect. Or you can just swim your rude ass back the way you came.”
Patrick unclenched his fist and shoved a hand through his hair again. The corner of his mouth jerked as his lips and cheek seemed to play tug of war. They must’ve reached a compromise because a lopsided grin emerged.
“Crazy eyes?” His voice cracked with humor.
“I, ah…,” he started and then paused, scratched the thick stubble on his chin and burned a hole in the back of my couch with his fierce stare. A quiet moment ticked by, disturbed only by the gentle sway of the house. “Thank you for taking m’rude arse in.” He took a deep breath and flicked his eyes to mine. They seemed a smidge warmer, still glacial but thawing around the edges.
Shadows in the Mist: A Paranormal Anthology Page 7
