She reached for his hands, a sure sign of impending disaster. “The message is from Evan.”
Evan. One word, and oxygen vanished from the world.
Marcus fought for the right to breathe, just as he had every day of the last forty-three years. “Evan is dead.”
“I know, dear boy.” Tears threatened to spill over in Moira’s eyes. “But a special few can hear the words of those gone from us.”
You didn’t grow up in Aunt Moira’s world without at least some respect for the more mystical magics. Marcus tried to keep his gruffness in check. “I wasn’t aware that you knew any mediums.”
“I don’t.” She shook her head slowly. “She was a stranger, sent to deliver a message.”
From Evan. Marcus had spent most of his life trying to reach across the veil that kept his twin just beyond his reach. That a stranger had done it drove him to fury and guilt in less than a breath.
And then he breathed one more time, and reason kicked in. “A stranger showed up in Realm with a message from the dead? And you believe her?” He reached for Moira’s mind. Politely-she’d always been hell on poor witch manners.
“Go ahead and look, my boy.” Her voice was pure Irish primness. “And then remember that appearances can be deceiving.”
Marcus looked. And then scrambled to clean up the brain melt caused by all the glitter and glitz. “
“You’re a fine one to judge.” Moira sniffed and reached to put his kettle on the stove. “You dress like some ruffian my aunt Martha would have chased out of her kitchen with a broom.”
It had suited an afternoon on the boat, but Marcus knew better than to defend the simple black he’d worn for years. “And how would the legendary Martha have felt about your gold-spangled stranger?”
Point scored-his aunt’s cheeks glowed pink. “She was never one to ignore magic, whatever its outward countenance.”
All Irish common sense went out the window when magic was involved. Marcus scowled and pulled out some carrot sticks-normally they were pretty effective witch repellant.
Moira only raised an eyebrow. “Out of cookies, are you?”
No, but he needed the rest of his stash to chase away small visitors. Most happily departed with a cookie in hand. “Carrots are good for you. They improve your eyesight.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my eyes, Marcus Grimald Buchanan.”
Marcus knew that tone. It was generally followed by long hours of cauldron scrubbing. There wasn’t a witch in Fisher’s Cove dumb enough to argue with that voice.
His aunt stared him down, Irish warrior woman in full throttle. “I’ve been reading people for far longer than you’ve been ignoring them. Do you think I’d have carried you a message from some charlatan?”
It had never come up. He stayed silent. Talking only gave people reason to stay.
Her eyes saddened, and she reached out to touch his cheek. “I’ve not have caused you that kind of pain, my dear sweet boy. Not ever.”
Dammit. Moira in high dudgeon he could perhaps repel. The aunt who had rocked him for hours, saying nothing, for days after Evan had died?
Even he wasn’t that crusty.
He pulled her hand down from his cheek, giving it a quick squeeze before locking down his armor. “What was the message?”
“There’s a baby coming. A wee girl by the name of Morgan.” Not by an eyelash did Moira betray her unease, but he could feel it stirring in her mind. “She’s to be yours.”
Marcus stared. And then felt the most unusual sensation. Laughter, bubbling all the way up from his toes. “Someone escaped from Las Vegas to tell you I’m going to be a father?” Clearly an object lesson on trusting his first instincts-nothing that glittery could possibly be real. “I can assure you, there are no babies out there with Marcus Buchanan genes.” He wasn’t entirely a hermit, but his recent life in Fisher’s Cove hadn’t exactly lent itself to clandestine encounters.
He got up to deal with the whistling kettle, wishing the whole day to hell. “Any other messages from beyond?”
“The dead don’t always speak clearly.” Moira, not taking the hint, reached into the cupboard for his cookie tin. “And there was one more bit about a missing soldier and church steps.”
The words hammered into his lungs. Marcus bent over, clutching the counter, vaguely aware that the dropped kettle had smashed a teacup to smithereens. Pink and green shards floated in front of his eyes, a terrifying gray haze sliding in to enfold his brain. The mists had come for Evan. Now they were coming for him.
And the part of him that would have been glad to go vanished in an onslaught of fear.
He was coming round. Sophie eased out of her healing trance slightly-Marcus was a strong mind witch, and he wouldn’t appreciate the invasion once he was conscious enough to feel it.
She looked over at six-year-old Lizzie, competently handling healer’s assistant duties. “Nice job on the monitoring there, sweetheart. What did you notice?” All moments were teaching ones, even when a perfectly healthy adult had collapsed while drinking tea with Aunt Moira.
Lizzie frowned. “It’s like Gran, but different.”
That was interesting. Lizzie had served countless hours as nursemaid when Moira was recovering from her stroke. “What do you mean? Different how?” One of the healer trainee’s more difficult tasks was learning to put words to things vaguely felt in scans.
Lizzie’s face screwed up in thought. “Well, the hurt is in his head, just like Gran’s, but there’s nothing really there. It doesn’t start anywhere-it’s just kind of all over. With Gran, we healed the hurt spot, and she got a lot better.” She looked down at Marcus, who was stirring now. “We can’t heal his whole head-it’s too big and grumpy.”
Sophie hid a grin-truer words were never spoken. “Sometimes when we aren’t sure what happened, it’s best to ask the patient.” She directed a light flow of energy into the healing trance. Time for Marcus to wake up and face the music. The fairly limited music-they’d cleared the room.
Some patients appreciated waking up to a room full of love. Marcus was not one of those patients.
When his eyes finally opened, the pain in them nearly knocked Sophie over. And then it eased-locked behind the impenetrable wall he always wore like armor. She felt the healing trance disconnect, lopped off by the strong mental will at the other end.
Marcus growled, the kind of hungry-bear sound that would have had most six-year-olds running for the door. Fortunately, Lizzie was made of sterner stuff. She patted his cheek and gave him a glare that would have done Moira proud. “Lie still while the blood finds your head or you’ll just end up lying on the floor again, and Uncle Aaron says you were heavy enough to carry the first time.”
Bright spots of red popped up on Marcus’s cheeks. His eyes zinged to Sophie’s. “What happened?”
Some things weren’t meant for little ears, even ones preparing for important responsibilities. Sophie put a hand on Lizzie’s shoulder. “Go send Gran in, lovey-and then if you could make up some of my chamomile tea, that would be helpful.” She leaned in and whispered, knowing it would take a good bribe to separate Lizzie and her newest patient. “You can doctor it up with anything you’d like from the bottom shelf of my herbals.”
She grinned as fast feet flew out the bedroom door. The most potent remedies were well out of Lizzie’s reach- but plenty of lovely and vile stuff inhabited the bottom shelf. Good practice for a budding healer-and an excellent threat if Marcus didn’t prove cooperative.
A good healer needed to be skilled with both carrots and sticks.
She looked back over at Marcus, who glared at her with well-deserved suspicion, and smiled. “I suggest you recover quickly.”
He snorted. “That would be easier done if I knew what the hell happened.”
Moira slid in the door, showing none of the hand-wringing fear she’d been wearing like a cloak when Sophie first arrived. She sat in the chair beside the bed, never taking eyes off her nephew. “It seems the medium brought you two messages-one I understood, and one I didn’t.”
