by T. M. Cromer
“Seven? I’ve never heard of seven elementals.” Selene had worked for the Greek branch of the Witches’ Council for many years. She’d had access to all sorts of information about the magical community, and only thirty or forty percent of what she learned had been fed to Victor to appease him. She’d kept the most important stuff to herself. “I imagine you are the sixth. But what could the seventh be?”
A slight frown puckered Alastair’s forehead as he nodded. “Electricity, if I’m not mistaken.”
“How do you know these things, Al?” Ryker shook his head and shot his brother-in-law a rueful smile. “I’ve been a spy for the Council for the majority of my life and never heard of a seventh elemental.”
“At least I don’t feel as uninformed as I did a moment ago,” Selene said with a soft snort.
Preston rubbed his fingertips along her shoulder. “I worked for the Council on occasion and never knew. Al is a cagey beast and possesses more knowledge than the average bear.”
“I like to keep my finger on the pulse of the magical world. You never know what you’ll discover if you watch and listen.” Alastair’s grin bordered on wicked. “Besides, I knew Castor, too.”
Quentin stilled, and his face paled. “Alexander Castor?”
“What is it, son?”
“Is that who you’re talking about? Alexander Castor?” Quentin demanded, rising to his full height and glowering.
Damian’s gaze turned thoughtful as he watched him. “Yes. What do you know of Castor?”
“From the family grimoire Athena handed off to me in Greece, I know a great deal. Like the fact he was my father, and also an electricity elemental.”
“Jesus!” Alastair and Damian jumped to their feet at the same time, their expressions showing pure shock.
The Aether recovered first and approached Quentin. “May I have your hand?”
With a wary look at the rest of them, Quentin gave in to Damian’s request. The Aether placed his palm over the top of Quentin’s, leaving only a half inch of space between them. A soft, glowing red light pulsed between them, growing stronger and more golden as the seconds passed. Finally, like a dying star, the flash momentarily blinded them all.
When Selene opened her eyes again, Damian was sweating and Quentin looked pale. His wife clasped his hand and urged him to sit on the rounded arm of her chair.
“What did you see?” Alastair asked. There was concern in his tone. For Quentin or Damian, Selene couldn’t be sure.
“Castor is indeed his father.” Damian gave Quentin a half smile and shook his head. “I don’t know why I didn’t recognize it right off. Your coloring is the opposite of his, but your features, your build, even the way you carry yourself is all the same.”
“I never registered the similarities, either,” Alastair said. “But maybe it’s why I liked him from day one.”
For the first time since Castor’s name was mentioned, Quentin looked more like his playful self. “You never liked me, or if you did, it certainly wasn’t from day one.”
“Hush, son. You’re not privy to my thoughts.” Alastair winked at Holly and resumed his seat. “Castor. What a carefree devil he was! Very much similar to how you are, my boy.”
“Wait. You said is my father. Does that mean he’s not dead?” Quentin asked Damian.
With a shrug, Damian said, “Based on something my daughter said, I believe he’s still around.”
“If he’s alive, why did he not claim me? Why let me grow up an orphan?” Although Quentin tried to keep a moderate tone, Selene could hear the underlying hurt behind the question.
“I don’t know,” Alastair admitted. He locked gazes with Damian. “Do you?”
“No. Until Sabrina told me, I had no idea he was still alive. Rumor has it Castor died twenty-five or thirty years ago.”
“You mentioned our opposite coloring. Did he have white hair and ice-blue eyes?” Quentin watched Damian carefully.
“He did.”
Quentin sagged as if the knowledge deflated him. “He came to see me when I was a small boy. He told me he was a friend of the family and he’d do what he could to protect me. Castor encouraged me to be a good boy, no matter what. He said if I was fair and kind, I’d grow to be someone he’d be proud to call son.”
“Definitely a father’s parting words,” Alastair said grimly. “But why would he walk away? Dethridge?”
“I don’t know, Al. But I certainly intend to find out.” Damian faced Quentin again. “What of your mother? You said you were an orphan.”
“She died right before Castor came to see me.” Quentin rose and crossed to the blazing fire. Staring down, he seemed transported to another time. “Maybe that’s why he visited. I was to be placed with a family the next week. A year later, the paperwork was finalized and I was adopted by the Buchanans.”
Holly remained quiet but sent a beseeching look toward her father as she rubbed the area over her heart. She appeared tormented on her husband’s behalf, and Selene felt sorry for her. The inability to ease the suffering of someone you loved exacted a heavy toll.
“Why wouldn’t he take me in?” Quentin asked, and the ragged question tore at her heart, making her want to comfort him.
“Maybe he didn’t feel he had anything to offer you,” Selene said gently. “Maybe he believed you were better off with a loving couple to raise you.”
He lifted his head and met her eyes across the distance. Angst had replaced his normal twinkle, and he stared at her almost unseeingly. “Perhaps.”
“You’re a traveler, Quentin.”
“So?”
“Can you not go back and ask?” Everyone looked at Selene as if she’d suggested the moon was purple. “None of you thought of it?”
Spring laughed. “No, but it’s the perfect solution.” She crossed to Quentin and touched his arm. “You can tell him to meet us here tonight.”
Although he didn’t seem particularly happy about the idea, he shifted his attention to Damian. “Is this what you want?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re sure he’s still alive?”
“Sabrina said it was so.”
Quentin grimaced and glanced toward the snapping fire. “Then I’ll go back. What is it you’d like me to tell him?”
Quentin rested against the base of a red maple tree as he watched the playground where his younger self sat, mourning the loss of his mother from days earlier. This childhood version of him had hunched shoulders, and pain was etched on his tiny face. From here, Quentin could see tears cutting a trail through the dirt on the boy’s cheeks, and he was immediately reminded of Frankie when she was upset. The desire to console was so strong, he had to fight the urge.
“You were a tragic figure.”
Quentin jerked and spun around. There, before him, stood Alexander Castor in the flesh. “How did you know I’d be here?”
“I spoke to adult-you the last time I visited you as a boy. It was only after I left that I realized who you were.”
“So our conversation wasn’t the same?”
“No.” Castor cocked his head, and a twinkle lit his ice-blue eyes. Quentin could see Damian had called it right when he said their mannerisms were the same. “Did you grow up to be the kind of man a father would be proud of, son?”
“Why would you give a shit now, Castor? You didn’t then.”
The other man flinched, and though his eyes grew more serious, he didn’t lose his smile. “I did. Then and now, Quentin. But circumstances aren’t always what they seem. You’ve led a good life, if I’m not mistaken?”
If he was being fair, Quentin couldn’t say he hadn’t. But he wasn’t sure he wanted to be fair. He’d missed out on knowing his real father, and it hurt like hell to learn Castor had been alive all this time and never sought him out. “Why didn’t you ever contact me?”
Castor looked beyond him to the tragic figure on the bench. “I was protecting you, son.”
“From what?”
“From those wh
o would enslave you for your ability.”
A cold sensation washed through Quentin, and he acknowledged it as the truth. “Did they enslave you?”
“Yes. Until I faked my death.”
“Is that why the Castor grimoire disappeared, along with any knowledge I had of our history? So no one would know I was your son?”
His father grinned, and approval lit his eyes. “How long did it take you to work that out?”
“I just did. So either longer than it should’ve, or I’m a damned genius.”
“I suspect the latter because you’re of my blood.” Castor turned serious and grew restless. “I can’t be here long, dear boy. Tell me what it is you need to say, so I can comfort your younger incarnation.”
“The Aether knows you’re alive and wants you to come meet with us at this location. The date and time are there, too.” Quentin handed him a paper with the details. “Come or don’t,” he said flatly. He didn’t bother to tell his father not to talk to young Quentin. He supposed it was necessary so he’d remember the moment and be able to inform Damian and Alastair in the present day. But oh, how he wanted to yell at Castor to fuck off. Who left their son? Why not stay to protect him? Teach him what he was and what he could do, instead of leaving him to flounder?
As he started to walk away, his father called his name.
He stopped but didn’t turn. “What?”
“You are my son, and I love you, Quentin. I did what I thought was best.”
“You are descended from a God with the ability to time travel, Castor. You could’ve protected me if you chose to remain.” He took a step and halted long enough to say, “Don’t let Damian and Alastair down.”
As Alexander Castor observed his grown son disappear into a fold of space, he felt a surge of pride. Quentin had no way of knowing he’d watched over him. Only once had Alex failed to get to him in time, but Quentin’s Traveler daughter had helped resolve the issue and altered her family’s timeline.
Castor read the paper in his hand and promptly burned it with a simple touch of his finger. His son wouldn’t have agreed to seek him out if it weren’t important. Alex grimaced at the thought of facing his former friends. They certainly wouldn’t be happy with him. Severing ties by creating the illusion of your own death wasn’t the best for a relationship. Damian was likely to be salty as hell, and Alastair would fillet Castor alive with his acerbic words.
Alex grinned. They’d eventually forgive him, and it would be wonderful to see them both again after all this time. With a careless shrug, he strode across the field toward his five-year-old son. Perhaps this time, he’d tell young Quentin the truth about who he was and how much he was loved. It would go a long way toward quelling Quentin’s animosity when next they met.
Chapter 9
Roughly thirty minutes after Quentin returned to the Drake estate, Alastair heard a knock on the door. He smiled in anticipation and followed Sebastian as he went to welcome their caller. The second Alexander Castor stepped into the foyer, Alastair was impacted by the excitement the other man was feeling, along with the mild trepidation.
“Castor. Back in the land of the living, I see.”
A wide grin took up half of Alex’s face. “Hello, Thorne. Good to see you again, my friend.”
“Am I? Your friend, that is?” Alastair made it a point to keep his eyes cool and his tone frosty. Inasmuch as he used to consider Castor one of his closest companions, he felt betrayed by the deception. Not as much as Damian likely did, but enough to not welcome the man back with open arms.
“I thought Damian would be the saltier of the two of you.”
Damian spoke from behind Alastair. “Salty? I’m more than salty, you bastard!” With a flick of his wrist, the Aether had Castor suspended five feet above them. “Tell me right now why I shouldn’t snap your worthless neck.”
“I lied to protect my son.”
The wind died from Damian’s sails, and he lowered his palm. There wasn’t a damned thing any one of them wouldn’t do to protect their children. Betraying a friend was on that list.
Once Castor had his feet planted firmly on the marble floor, he stepped forward. “I’m sorry, Dethridge. Truly.”
“You think we wouldn’t have helped you protect Quentin?” Alastair asked archly. “Did you forget who and what we are?”
“Ah, so he’s told you I’m his father.”
“Only just. Also, he’s the ‘salty’ one at the moment.” Alastair uncrossed his arms and gestured with a thumb over his shoulder. “You changed the timeline, and he’s dealing with the hangover of new memories merging with old.”
“Come, Castor. We need your input.” Damian turned on his heel and stalked back toward Sebastian’s study, never doubting they would all follow.
“You’d think twenty-seven years would mellow a guy out,” Castor muttered.
Damian turned on a dime and was toe-to-toe with him in a second. “You’re a heartless prick. We mourned for you, you sonofabitch.”
Alastair felt the air shift and tighten around them. Priceless works of art clapped against the wall as antique vases wobbled on their perches. Damian’s anger prickled his skin, and he found it difficult to breathe under the weight of the Aether’s fury. “Dethridge, please.”
With a concerted effort, Damian shoved down his rage. “Apologies, Al.”
“I’d watch the snark if I were you, Castor. None of us are in the mood.” Alastair led the way to the study. “Ladies and Gentlemen, may I present the infamous Alexander Castor.”
“Holy shit! He’s as gorgeous as Quentin. I wonder if he does dishes without his shirt, too.”
“Try to remember you’re married, my dear.” Alastair gave Autumn a quelling look, but she simply shrugged, unrepentant.
Castor grinned and shot her a wink. He did a slow turn, taking in every face around him before he abruptly faced Holly. They studied one another for a long minute. “Hello, my dear. Or should I say, prickly pear?” he said softly.
“Mrs. Buchanan or Holly is preferred.” She looked none too happy with his familiarity. Stepping backward, she clasped Quentin’s hand. “I see you know how to scry. If that’s the case, you’ve already figured out I don’t tolerate pricks like you. Also, you should know only my husband is allowed to call me prickly. I’ll cut anyone else.” Holly was basically telling Castor that until Quentin was ready to forgive and forget, she wouldn’t be charmed. Alastair had never been prouder of his daughter.
After a choked laugh, Castor said, “You’re very much like your father.” Admiration lit his pale eyes, and he gave her a quick nod of understanding. “The perfect match for my son.”
From behind her, Quentin enfolded her in his embrace. “We don’t need your approval, Castor.”
“I would’ve thought the new timeline changed how you felt about me,” his father said softly.
“You honestly believe a few well-chosen words and a surprise visit once a year would soften me up? It was a nice try, but the one thing you seemed to forget is how impossible it is to forget the old memories.”
Castor sobered and gave him a nod. “Of course. I only wanted you to know you were cared for, my boy. I meant no harm.”
“The slightest change in my past could’ve altered my relationship with Holly and, as a result, my daughter’s entire existence. Perhaps if you were less reckless and more caring, you’d have taken that into consideration.” Quentin’s tone was harsh and unforgiving.
Alastair understood his reasoning. The young man lived for his family. They were Quentin’s whole world, and he wouldn’t take kindly to anyone risking their safety or happiness.
Evie stepped around Holly to stand directly in front of Castor. “You were a reckless rogue, Alexander. It looks like nothing’s changed. You were missed by us all.” She opened her arms in welcome, and with what Alastair interpreted as relief on his friend’s part, Castor embraced her.
“I missed you, too, Miss Evie.”
Unexpected emotion clogged Alastai
r’s throat as he watched them hug. Castor had been a fixture in his family’s life when they were all much younger. The day he disappeared and was presumed dead had been painful for them all.
Alastair met Damian’s dark, brooding stare. Knowing the Aether could read his mind, he mentally telegraphed, “Let’s get through this first. Then I’ll hold him while you plant a fist in his smug face.”
From Damian’s ghost of a smirk, Alastair knew the message was received loud and clear.
* * *
Off to the side, Selene watched the drama unfolding. She’d forgotten Knox stood next to her until he spoke. “You’ll get used to it.”
Surprised, she lifted her head to meet his compassionate eyes. “Will I?”
“They are a bit much in a large group, but it isn’t always like this. The quiet times are worth the chaos.”
“You believe you have me figured out, Mr. Carlyle.”
“I’d never be so bold as to claim a working knowledge of a woman’s mind, ma’am, but I’ve been in your shoes. I’m happiest in the quiet of Spring’s garden or spending time in a barn with my horses. This…” He gestured to the small crowd in the center of the room. “…well, it’s an introvert’s nightmare.”
Selene bit back a smile. “Thank you for trying to ease my way into the family. But as a figurehead for the Greek Witches’ Council, I’m quite accustomed to crowds. My guarded nature is what sets me apart.”
“Fair enough. But when they drive you crazy, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
She allowed a small smile as he strolled off.
Leaving the Thornes to bring Alexander Castor up to speed, Selene began exploring her surroundings. In the gallery, she admired the family portraits and pieced together what she knew of Sebastian Drake. They’d met once at a Council function. He’d been debonair and reminded her of a James Bond character. She supposed the comparison was apt because she’d never had a clue he protected the Enchantress’s tomb. It was all so cloak-and-dagger-like.
