A Celtic Witch (A Modern Witch Series: Book 6)

by Debora Geary

  Ellie grinned and played faster. Brighter.

  Oh, sweet girl. Be careful. Cass doubled down on her harmony. Long, slow notes. A foundation. Holding the feet of brightness to the ground. Remember your roots.

  Brightness only laughed, content to float and fly and dance toward the horizon.

  The urge to protect—to ensnare, to warn of things that lay over the horizon—was fierce.

  And then the words of Nan, twenty-six years in the past, floated up through the pain. Go, child. Fly. And when you’re done and ready to come home, you’ll know.

  The younger Cassidy Farrell had only laughed, sure that day would never come.

  Only now did the older Cassidy, travel weary and heartsore, realize how terribly hard it must have been for Nan to toss her into the sky.

  Cass drifted Rosie’s harmony to an end, no longer fighting Ellie’s shining flight. This wasn’t about Ellie. It was about the woman who had flown away long before her time.

  And was perhaps ready to come home.

  -o0o-

  From one misbegotten village in the middle of nowhere to another.

  Marcus jerked his car to the side of the road next to an enormous barn and cursed his empty stomach, his foolish quest, and the green-eyed witch who’d brought him here.

  Eight hours ago, he’d felt like the knight errant Warrior Girl dared him to be. A long, hungry drive later, punctuated by ridiculous treks across barren beaches in search of exactly the right pebbles, and he was ready to plant his sword and hand over the keys of the kingdom to whichever dragon was ready to promise him a warm bed for the night.

  Which probably meant he was hallucinating, on top of all his other woes.

  There was an impressive crowd of cars parked outside a place known only as The Barn. The gratingly genial man at the front desk of the inn had said he would find Cassidy here.

  And while the man’s mind had teemed with questions, he’d asked not a word. Only promised to set aside a room key for Marcus should he need it.

  Knights errant weren’t supposed to think of rooms and beds and earthly comforts. The smart ones didn’t drive lonely roads in the middle of dark winter nights, either. Marcus jammed a wool hat on his head, pulled his sweater up around his ears, and made a run for the door.

  A lady twice his age held it open for him, smiling sweetly. “Coming to hear the music, dear? You should wear a jacket—you’ll catch your death running around dressed like that.”

  He scowled, disoriented by the bright light, the warmth, and the friendly lecture.

  “Don’t harass the man, Mildred.” A large hand clapped down on his shoulder. “He’s new here. Let’s buy him a beer before the ladies get their hands on him.”

  That sounded ominous—both the beer and the ladies. Hunger clawed at his insides. He’d used every ounce of magic on the journey here. Seeking. Trying to prop up his wavering, crazed bravery. “Is there anything to eat?”

  The weathered, friendly face looked surprised. “Didn’t we see you parked outside the inn? Dave has the best food in town.”

  Damn small towns and their gossip chains and eagle-eyed inhabitants. “I just got here. I was hoping to find Cassidy Farrell.” He couldn’t feel her here.

  “Yep, heard she’s playing tonight.” His new friend angled them through the crowd. “That’s young Ellie Brennan up there right now, though.”

  Marcus craned his head, trying to catch a glimpse of the low stage. Reached out with what spluttering remnants of mind magic he still had.

  Nothing.

  “Here, you can eat this while you listen.” A paper plate bearing a stuffed pastry nearly crashed into his chest. “Got you one of the ones with flounder. Unless you’re one of those mainlanders who likes cow.”

  He’d have taken one with pebbles and seaweed. Marcus picked it up, his fingers yipping at the heat, and took a bite anyhow—a burnt tongue would be a small price to pay for sustenance.

  The flaky crust registered first, full of still-too-hot buttery goodness. And then his taste buds found the innards. He chewed, doing homage to the single best thing he’d ever eaten.

  Fuel for the feeblest of knights.

  “They could bring an army to its knees, couldn’t they?” Blue eyes twinkled as his companion bit into one of his own. “Mildred makes them. Dave’s been trying to get the recipe out of her for going on thirty years now.”

  It was a worthy quest. Marcus stared down at the flimsy paper plate and plastic fork that had come along with the food of the gods. “Thank you.”

  “First one’s on me. You want another one, find Mildred’s granddaughter. Two dollars for fish, three for cow. Cass will be on in just a few minutes.” The man with the large hands disappeared into the crowd, a blur in the crowded warmth.

  Marcus took another bite of the delicacy in his hands, steamrolled by a town where you could buy heaven for two dollars.

  And then the music sank in.

  Not Cassidy—he knew that before the first three notes registered. The music was young and light and lacked her supreme confidence. But it tugged at him nonetheless.

  Slowly, a man in a daze, he worked his way through the chatting throngs, bits and pieces of their mental chatter bouncing off his weakened barriers. It might look like they were ignoring the music, but whoever was playing had their attention.

  And she was surprising them.

  When he made his way close enough to see, the last thing he expected was a child. A gangly, bright-eyed girl, fingers dancing on a patinaed violin that looked a century older than she was.

  A white-haired head leaned in. “That’s our Ellie. Good, isn’t she?”

  He wasn’t much of a judge of fiddling, but he knew presence when he saw it. Ellie, whoever she was, knew how to wrap an audience around her little finger.

  His Cass could do that.

  Marcus felt half the inhabitants of Middle Earth pounding on his skull from the inside out. His Cass.

  His lanky informant leaned in again, chuckling this time. “And here comes Buddy to show her how it’s done.”

  The man who walked onto the stage next, fiddle already on his shoulder, was old enough to be Ellie’s great-grandfather. And the moment he played his first note, respect flared everywhere in the hall.

  He still wasn’t Cassidy Farrell—but his mastery needed no introduction. Ellie wanted to be great. Buddy knew that he was. In an understated, modest, grandfatherly kind of way—but this was not a man in doubt of his talent.

  Marcus watched, last nerve straining, as the old man sat down on a stool about ten feet from the young girl. She stood straighter, eyes ready. And then he winked at her and his fingers began to fly. Something fast, furious, and Celtic to the core.

  It was a dare—even Marcus could figure that out.

  Ellie grinned, lightning quick, and chased after the man three generations her senior.

  And then Cass walked out.

  For Marcus, it was as if all the lights in the world had dimmed. All the sound. Through concrete walls, he heard her pick up Ellie’s response. Toss the dare back at the old man. Ever so dimly, he saw the crowd in The Barn pause their chatting and their dancing, all eyes pointed at the stage.

  His heart saw only her.

  He’d seen her play sitting on a chair in the parlor of Aaron’s inn. He’d never seen this.

  Mesmerized, he watched his green-eyed Irish witch. She didn’t play for her audience—she melded with them. The love of life that had so enthralled him in her mind flew out her fingers now. Enticing. Calling, the notes of her fiddle a thread stitching every person in the hall to the three of them at the front.

  He’d wondered, somewhere on the long, lonely drive up, if maybe she preferred a life as the one in the limelight. The trio up on the stage answered at least that much. Whatever else had driven Cass away from Fisher’s Cove, it wasn’t a need to be the star. Her notes played just underneath Ellie’s, pushing the girl. Encouraging. Joined with the old man in intricate harmonies that made the sk
ill in his seasoned fingers shine.

  Marcus inched closer, wishing inanely for a violin and some meager ability to play it. A spot, however small, in her circle of magic. You’re so very beautiful.

  It was clear she heard him. Rosie stuttered a whole measure of notes, to the utter astonishment of the two who played with her.

  He saw her urge to run. And then he felt her feet plant, somewhere deep in the ground underneath The Barn.

  And turning to face him, Cassidy Farrell played.

  Not a dare now. And not a trio.

  Something alive and defiant and without a name.

  And everything in him rose to meet it.

  -o0o-

  He was here.

  Cass let the fire and angst and confused, shuddering hope blaze into Rosie’s strings. Her eyes had yet to find him in the hall—but her heart felt him.

  Buddy nodded quietly. Off to their left.

  She thanked the eagle-eyed old man. And turned to face her destiny.

  He stood about two square-dance circles away from the stage, but nobody was dancing now. Pragmatic Celts had gotten themselves out of the craggy man’s way and found a good spot to view the action.

  Because action was coming—not a soul in The Barn was in doubt of that. A moment, poised on the brink of happening.

  And a choice.

  She could see it in his eyes. Marcus Buchanan might have chased her across half of Nova Scotia—but he wasn’t coming the last twenty feet. That was hers to do.

  Or not.

  The rocks had gone silent, just like the people of Margaree. A world, waiting for Cassidy Farrell to decide.

  Slowly, Rosie still spitting fire, she turned in a full circle. Looking.

  At the young girl who stood on the brink of a journey that had left twenty-six years of dust on Cass’s boots.

  At the old fiddle master, playing for the people of his village. One of the best in the world—and he rarely left home.

  At the faces she looked forward to seeing every year. Continuity. Belonging. A fabric where Cassidy Farrell was a pretty thread—just one, but one that mattered.

  At the small girl who looked a little bit like Morgan, dancing gleefully in the middle of the floor, oblivious to the patterns moving around her, but part of them.

  And finally at the man with the face that knew sadness and the heart that was unfathomably kind. The man who stood there with one of Mildred’s pastries clutched in his fist and called her beautiful.

  She looked. And then she closed her eyes and listened. Truly listened.

  Not to the rocks. Or to the expectation beating in Margaree.

  To her own heart. And to the notes streaming from her violin. Defiant, yes—Rosie would never go easily into the night.

  But she would go. It was time for a new journey.

  With a last, fierce riff, Cass brought her fiddle’s anthem to an end. Handed it, fingers shaking, to a gobsmacked Ellie Brennan to hold.

  And slowly, letting the theater and import of the moment sink into her bones, stepped off the low stage.

  She saw Dave standing over on the side of the floor, eyes full of avid curiosity. In the way of the Scots, he wouldn’t ask—but he would find out.

  It occurred to her that she might be seeing the familiar faces of Margaree far more often. And something deep inside her that had been walking the road for twenty-six years gladdened.

  Two and a half decades of dust falling off her boots, she walked over to the man in black, standing there with pastry juice running down his fingers. “Do you square dance?”

  The horrified look on Marcus’s face was answer enough. It didn’t matter—by the time the ladies of Margaree were finished with him, he would. A grumpy bachelor was no match for tough Scottish grannies with a need to dance.

  He stared at her for the longest time, not moving. And then he reached into his pocket and held up the fist not occupied by Mildred’s pastry. “My aunt says that flowers have a language. Each one has a meaning.” He surveyed the contents of his hand. “I’m hoping these do as well.”

  She looked. A mess of random pebbles and pretty colors, some still damp from ocean waters and winter rain. And nestled in their midst, the three that mattered.

  A large and craggy bit of granite, too big to be a mere pebble. He probably thought it was ugly.

  A small and sparkly treasure the color of Morgan’s eyes.

  And a rock in vivid green.

  An offer. From a man who’d stopped in the middle of a manic drive in the dead of winter to pick stones from a beach.

  Muddled joy grabbed Cass’s throat. “I’ve never been a pebble before.”

  “I’ve never been a lot of things before,” he said, so quietly she barely heard him. “But I’d like to try.”

  It was the first time she’d ever seen his gentleness leak all the way to the outside.

  She laid her palm over his, the bits of granite and green and sparkle cupped between their hands. “Okay.”

  And then grinned up at him, sunshine bright, as the people of Margaree did a decent approximation of a jubilant human earthquake.

  -o0o-

  People never applauded for him.

  As he felt joy bloom in Cass’s mind and heard the ruckus bust loose around them, that was the single fragment of clarity left in Marcus Buchanan’s brain.

  The applause was never for him.

  He looked down at their cupped hands, and then back up at her radiant face.

  And oblivious to pastry and pebbles hitting the floor, pulled her in close.

  He tucked the joyous, vibrant, defiant Cassidy Farrell under his chin, tight against his heart. And simply swayed. She fit. He had no idea how their story ended just yet. But she fit.

  Perhaps he wasn’t a totally incompetent knight errant after all.

  Chapter 22

  Ah, what a momentous day for so many people.

  Moira stood in the middle of the main and only road of Fisher’s Cove, loving the chaotic beauty that flowed around her.

  Every villager in town, including Andy on his crutches, had come to send the travelers off.

  An enormous bus sat on the road, Cassidy Farrell’s larger-than-life face next to dancing letters proclaiming the great Swordfights and Lullabies tour of 2013.

  It was going to be a short tour.

  And according to her manager, one booked to the gills. The sharp and funny man with the promising name of Tommy had driven the bus into town the day before. Here to pick up his girl—and promising to bring her back.

  He’d sworn the latter over a cup of tea at Moira’s table. And behind the swagger and the big-city attitude, she’d seen enough love for their Celtic fiddler to believe him.

  Things were moving fast enough to have even the most romantic hearts swooning—and the more practical ones hopping trying to get all the details in order. You didn’t take a baby on a road trip without a multitude of those.

  And Marcus was as marvelously befuddled as Moira had ever seen him. She linked elbows with the old woman beside her. It had taken Nan Cassidy two whole cups of tea to recover from her trip through the Internet.

  And then they’d set to blessing the bus with a vengeance. It would travel with all the protection two Irish grannies could muster.

  “It’s really happening, isn’t it?” Sophie joined them on the side of the road, three insulated cups in her hands. “Morgan’s all excited about her bus ride.”

  Sophie and Elorie had quietly taken care of getting a toddler and her daddy ready for an epic journey. Clothes, blankies, and hand-knit teddy bears, all safely stashed away in their new home on wheels. Video of swordfights and daffodils and Lizzie singing sweet Irish lullabies to remind Morgan of home. Moira sniffled. “I’ll miss them so.”

  Sophie smiled. “They can port back any time they want. Nell’s got it all set up. And you can port to the bus for a visit any time you want.” She nudged Nan. “That goes for you as well.”

  Tears pricked green eyes. “It will take m
e a while to work up my nerve again. But I will.”

  Moira knew something about old Irish nerves. She suspected the bus would have a visitor by dinnertime.

  She sighed, a tinge of sad sharpening the happiness, as it should. She’d still miss her small girl and her nephew and the lovely Irish witch they’d found. And she’d miss watching Marcus’s face. Somewhere on that bus ride, he was going to finish the transformation into a man who lived a largely happy life.

  Nan turned to the healer beside her. “And how is your wee boy doing?”

  Just another of the happinesses cradled in Moira’s heart. The village had been quietly abuzz for days. Dreams, vivid ones. Of music. And rocks. Her own had been of a planet’s gorgeous lullaby.

  But none had been more touched than their lovely, uncomfortable boy.

  “He sleeps.” Sophie’s quiet words were drenched in gratitude. “And if he wakes, Mike sings a bit and he goes back to sleep. And he’s happy.”

  The last Moira had seen for herself—and it warmed her to the very cockles. No one knew yet if it would stick. But it had lasted some—and his guide would be back soon enough, ready to learn more of her own powers.

  It wasn’t only the woman coming back to Fisher’s Cove.

  The witch had also chosen. She had said little—but the bus also contained half of Moira’s books on healing and the old Irish clans. Set right next to a motley collection of Nova Scotia beach rocks that Cass guarded far more carefully than her million-dollar violin.

  Moira grinned. They’d learned that little tidbit when Tommy had arrived and discovered Morgan holding Rosie in her lap. They’d also learned a little something of Cassidy Farrell’s temper. Morgan would hold Rosie any time she wanted. It had been decreed.

  The bus ride would go just fine.

  Marcus moved through the crowd, Morgan in his arms, still looking gobsmacked. Moira shed a tear—it was only right.

  But oh, how happy she was with what she saw. A man with surprisingly firm roots, healed enough to fly. And the woman beside him, finally daring to put down some roots of her own. Cass would be very good for Marcus—her wings were strong and tested.

  And Morgan, sweet, smart girl that she was, would delight in them both.