by Mina Carter
The door opened to display a short walkway of dark oak flooring. For a fraction of a moment Chaz hesitated. This was Jethro’s private place. This wasn’t right. She felt like a criminal all at once. She was invading his personal space, but she couldn’t stop herself. Chaz needed, wanted, to know Jethro McBain. Would he discover her breach? What would he think of her then?
She couldn’t stop now, she rationalized, she was on a mission.
Chaz bolstered herself and moved down the corridor’s length, turned the corner, and found what would have been a delightful sitting room in its day. Bright light streamed in the long windows, which overlooked a stone wall enclosed courtyard. Its shapely flowerbed had been placed in an attractive pattern, but had gone to weed. Chaz thought the courtyard would have been inviting and lovely in its day.
Dusty sheet-covered furniture surrounded Chaz. No doubt this had been a warm and welcoming room when Jethro’s parents had been alive. Perhaps that was why he kept it sealed off. Painful memories? She immediately sympathized with him for a moment and once more felt like a heel because she was intruding.
However, the deed was done. She might as well trudge on. A set of closed double doors at the far end of the room beckoned and she walked in their direction.
Remember Pandora, she told herself. Maybe this was a box better left locked. She took the handles of the two doors and opened them wide. She stood stoically a moment, looking in. Nothing alarming. Anything interesting?
A lovely crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling of the vast room. The ceiling displayed a painting that traversed one wall. It depicted scenes of stealthy warriors and contrarily gowned ladies of an early century, and something else Chaz recognized at once. She had seen this kind of art once when her Fae grandfather had taken her to Faery.
It was the very scene painted on the ceiling of the Fae music pavilion on the Faery Isle of Tir. Of course, no one would know that unless they had been there.
The painting of displayed several male golden-haired Tuatha Dé hunks of various large and muscular builds. Chaz wondered who had been the artist in the McBain family, and what they possibly had in connection with the Fae. This piece had not come from imagination.
She knew Jethro was not Fae. She would have detected it immediately. Fae cannot hide from one another.
She could not put it down to coincidence. Every detail came from the original painting in Tir. Ireland was full of vivid stories and descriptions of the Fae, but this was unique in as much as it was an exact copy from the one she had scene in Tir.
The Fae females in the painting, portrayed as scantily dressed, extraordinary golden-haired beauties, possessed eye colors that suggested rainbow shades. They stood in social languor with a magnificent beach at their backs and an aqua ocean that beckoned one to dive right in. Oh yeah, Chaz chewed her bottom lip--this artist had definitely visited the land of Faery.
For a long moment, Chaz studied and the work then she turned her attention to the rest of the long rectangular room. A piano stood tucked away in one corner. Chairs sat in semi-circles. Twelve, she counted. Each semi-circle faced a dais of four high-backed seats. The dais caught her attention. She sucked in her breath.
The wide, ornate façade of the dais sported the insignia JM, like the one on the ring she had seen when she had looked into Dark X’s orb.
A sharp pain clutched her heart.
It couldn’t be the same. This was, after all, Jethro’s home—of course it would have his initials somewhere. There was nothing untoward about his initials on a piece of furniture. No doubt he was named for an ancestor, and this was the ancestor’s insignia.
It looked as though this room had been used to hold some kind of meetings in the past. A quick scan detected no other visible circumstance that would indicate sorcery.
And then, without warning, magic slammed into her with a force that shook the room. Like a pulsating dark hole, it came to throb only inches from her face.
On bated breath she waited.
It took on substance, like a soft gray fog, and suddenly the threat dissipated. It reverberated upon itself and smoked the room. It grew and vibrated within the fog it had created, and its aura surrounded her, caressed her, as though recognizing a kindred spirit. It came smack up to her face, took the form of a gamine child, and she took a hasty step backward and called on her protective shield.
This was power, supreme power, and it had nothing to do with a white witch’s magic. This was something else altogether.
Without warning, the presence spoke softly. “Welcome, Chazma Donnelly, daughter of Rachel.”
Chaz gasped for air. She needed to breathe. She drew on her inner strength. “What are you?”
“All and nothing, aged and ageless, power infinite.”
“Oh well, that explains everything.”
Just as suddenly as the dark, smoky mist appeared, it dissipated.
What the hell? But what did she expect? Not this? This was an entity, a power that was more than just magic, it was alive with magic.
But was it evil?
A power resided in this house, in this room, that knew her mother and now knew her. Conclusion?
She threw up her hands—she hadn’t a clue!
She spent what she thought were only a few more minutes searching the room for something that would tell her more and finally, she found it.
It seemed to glow and she realized at once, she was looking at a Fae relic. It was an alabaster piece that looked like a key. She touched it and it made a soft sound of pleasure. Was this what had made the fog and the form of a child? Had this relic spoken to her? Fae relics often took on a life of their own. Was this the answer? Or was there another? The entity had recognized the Fae in her. So what did it mean?
She smiled ruefully. None of her questions had been answered and now she had a dozen more. She glanced at her watch.
Seven o’clock—the hour stunned her into haste.
She didn’t know when “Himself” was getting home and she sure didn’t want to get caught.
She left the room at her back and stood in the central hall a moment to collect herself when the phone rang. She dug it out of her jeans and flipped it open. Dunboyne’s voice caused a trickle of annoyance. “Chazma—?”
“Yup—hi, James.”
“I am so happy I finally got you. I have been trying for awhile and haven’t been able to get through.”
Huh. No signal in the room with the super magic. “Is everything okay, James? You sound distraught.”
“No, Chaz, everything is not okay. I’m going crazy and I sure would love to just slow down and have a quiet dinner with you.”
The front door opened and Jethro walked in. He eyed her and her phone. She said, “Dinner tonight? Sorry, James, but I’ve had a long day and think I’ll skip going out tonight. Maybe tomorrow. Look—gotta go, talk to you later.” She flipped the phone closed and glanced at Jethro. His mouth formed a flat line and his dark brows furrowed.
“I see I had no reason to be concerned. Ye are fine and well.” His ice-blue gaze raked her.
“Well, don’t look so disappointed.” Chazma almost snorted.
“I called to tell ye I would be a bit late and when ye didn’t answer either the house phone or yer cell phone I got worried.”
Magic zone, no phone signal.
“I am sorry. I don’t know why. It is working now.” She feigned ignorance and although she could see he did not quite buy it, he didn’t pursue it.
“So I see.” His voice was clipped as he asked, “James again? Did he offer to pick ye up this time, lass?”
She rolled her eyes at him, and put a hand on her hip. “You, my lord, had a visitor today—she said you would know who she was. She wants you to go over to her place tonight. Now let me see…what did she call you? Oh…oh yes, her sweet love.” Breathless, she waited to see if he would immediately know who his visitor had been. Anxiety rode her while she waited for his reaction.
“Ah…Olivia.” His mouth sc
rewed up.
For some inexplicable reason, she found herself absolutely and totally out of temper. Feeling idiotic, she took a moment to try and get control. She couldn’t help herself when she mimicked in an unattractive voice, “Ah…Olivia.” Pulling a face at him she added, “I thought you would have better taste—you do in most things.”
“Precisely how I feel when I see ye lunching with Tomcat Murphy one moment and rushing off to meet Dunboyne the next.”
“Whoa…I…well, not the same thing.”
“I see what it is, Chaz Donnelly. I do believe ye are something of a tease.” Aggression wafted over his tone.
“I am not,” Chaz almost stomped her foot and did in fact, put her hands on her hips, “I never have been and never will be! How dare—”
“Ye are teasing men all over town. You strut and smile, blink and wink, and ye don’t mean to give any of them the time of day. Tease.”
“I…how can you say that? What should I do, walk around and scowl at the world? You don’t know what you are talking about.”
“Don’t I? Ye are a tease and ye know it.”
“I am not.” She sounded childish even to herself.
“Really?” Jethro gripped her shoulders and his blue eyes held the promise of lightning. “What do ye call climbing into my lap, enthusiastically engaging me in a kiss, only to leave me cold at the scene? What, Chazma Donnelly?”
“I call it correcting a very bad mistake,” she spat.
“Mistake, is it?” Jethro crushed her to him then and as his lips took and parted hers, he whispered into her mouth, “Like this…”
The bones in her knees dissolved. Her heart opened. Her body adjusted to his solid mass without discussing it with her brain. And then she remembered: he and Olivia were lovers.
She pushed him away. “Go on and give those kisses to Olivia. I think she said she would wait for you.”
“I should go to Olivia,” he snapped at her.
“Then go.” Chaz spun and ran down the hall and up the stairs. A moment later she slammed her door and locked it. Tears burst from her, once again and this time, she had no doubt why, she was absurdly crying because of Jethro McBain.
Chapter Fourteen
SATURDAY MORNING LOOMED gray and dismal and Chaz sighed as she made her way toward the kitchen for coffee and whatever food she could rustle up. She had missed dinner last evening and was ravenous.
Light drizzle pattered at the kitchen window. Irish rain made everything green, so she shouldn’t complain. Her brows rose when she went to the counter and saw that the coffee had already been brewed and a huge selection of pastries had been set out.
A footstep at her back made her jump. “I noticed ye like the sweets, lass…” Jethro McBain’s voice was soft and the smile in his eyes seemed to cover her in kisses.
Oh God, she loved his brogue.
The sound of his voice stroked her and captured her imagination and oh no, she couldn’t—wouldn’t—do this to herself. Maybe she should just give in to her lust and get it over and done with? Yup, do it, do him, and then wipe your hands of him. But she had a feeling once she succumbed to Jethro McBain, she would be forever lost…
“You’re up early.” She poured coffee, and tried but failed to stop her hand which reached for not one, but two delicious-looking breakfast pastries. Her wayward hand, her body, her hunger were all teaming up against her in every single imaginable way. She took her plate and her coffee to the center-island and busied herself pouring some light cream into the dark brew. She had noticed that he always took his coffee black, and tasting it now, she realized he liked it strong…whew.
“Aye, so I am. I had a rough night…decided to just stop trying to sleep.”
“Rough, eh…?” She looked at him hard.
“Not with Olivia or anyone else. I made m’self some dinner, ate alone, which was not what I planned, but there ye are…what do ‘they’ say about the best laid plans of mice and men…?” He shook his head and said in a tone that displayed he was annoyed with himself. “I don’t know why the bloody hell I am explaining myself. I don’t have to, ye must know, I don’t explain myself to anyone.”
Chaz laughed and it eased the tension of the moment. “Somehow I can’t see you in the same sentence with mice, or other men, for that matter, and your explanation was…nice.”
“Chazma Donnelly—is there a compliment in there somewhere?”
She smirked. “There might be.”
He poured himself some coffee and sat across from her at the island. “How did ye sleep?”
“I should tell you blissfully—like a baby, but I won’t. It was a horrible night and I did not sleep well at all.”
He reached over and touched her hand. A jolt shot through her system, not the kind that kills, not the kind that makes you jump away, just the kind that makes you sit up and take notice and shiver for more. She didn’t pull her hand away—instead, she looked long and directly into his dark blue eyes.
She saw him move in and wondered what was he thinking, what was he feeling. He appeared to be experiencing some physical discomfort.
Both pleasure and pain mingled in his eyes and Chaz watched as he went through the conflicting sensations. He looked like he was about to take her in his arms and she wasn’t sure what she would do.
Was that what she wanted? Yes dummy, that is what you want. Go for it, get it done, now, said the savage Chaz. Instead of answering the question in her mind, she got control and decided to keep her peace.
He asked her quietly, “Are ye worried about this heathen murderer?”
“I am not worried for myself, if that is what you mean.” Her opened arms indicated her surroundings. “I know I am well protected. I am so awfully concerned about the next young woman he goes after. I need to find him, get to him, stop him before there is a next victim.”
“Ye need to stop him? What can ye mean by that, lass—for I cannot believe ye think ye can find him all by yer lonesome, and then put an end to such as he?”
She realized she had said too much. “Well—I mean the garda of course. I was speaking figuratively,” she hurriedly amended. She had let her guard down. She had allowed herself to trust him. Chaz fought an instant overwhelming compulsion to tell him what she was—ask him what he was, ask him why he had a Fae relic in his home. She opened her mouth and nothing, absolutely nothing, came out.
A clanging of the cowbell that hung beside the glass window of the kitchen door caught their attention and interrupted their moment. They both looked up and found Tom Murphy’s face plastered at the glass.
Chazma laughed. Jethro cursed under his breath and then went to let the inspector in. “Morning to ye, Tom, what brings ye here so early?”
“Smelled yer coffee.” He went right over to the coffeemaker, took a mug from the shelf, and poured himself a cup. He turned to smile warmly at Chazma. “Morning to ye, lovey. How are ye feeling after yer ordeal?”
“Find anything?” Chaz at her most non-committal.
“The devil is, there isn’t anything to find. He leaves us a body, nothing more.” Tom clenched his jaw. “Don’t have forensic evidence to point us where I want to go, but damn if I don’t think I know who the bastard is.” He took a chair and sat with them as he gave Jethro a considering look.
“Ah, so ye have arrived there, have ye?” Jethro McBain said and sipped his coffee.
“Nothing I can prove, Jet…as ye must know.”
“Put it on the table, Tom. Who do ye have in yer sights?” A deadly quiet blanketed the room as Jethro eyed Tom. Chaz was certain Jethro already knew the answer to his question.
“Ah, Jet m’man. We both know there can be only one person behind these savage murders.”
“Do we?”
Tom’s cell phone rang. He gave Jethro a quizzical glance, and then answered his phone. “Aye…what? Slow down…what is that ye say?” He listened for a few more moments and then said confidently, “Right then—be easy, Miss Pratt…we’ll look into it right
away…aye…I hear ye.” He hung up the phone, looked darkly at Jethro, and announced, “Olivia Pratt has gone missing. That was her sister. They were supposed to go on a shopping trip to Dublin this morning. However, when Elizabeth went to fetch her sister, she found the front door wide open, everything in tact, and no forced entry.” Accusation glinted in his hazel eyes as he stared at Jethro and Chaz held her breath, wondering what this was all about. He cocked a brow at Jethro and said questioningly, “Her sister says Olivia told her she expected ye to be stopping by last night.”
A sneer pulled at Jethro’s face as he answered sharply, “I never had a date with Olivia, although she had extended an invitation through Chazma yesterday afternoon. I did not take her up on her invitation.”
“Where were ye then?”
“I was here.”
Tom raised his brow, and then looked toward Chazma. “Here—all night—with Chaz?”
“No. Chaz retired to her room early,” he responded immediately, “I had dinner alone and went to my room alone.”
“Did ye now?”
A frown took over her Chaz’s face, and she directed it at Tom Murphy. “What are you suggesting?”
“I am not suggesting anything. I am however, doing me job.” His expression was defensive.
“I wasn’t there and have no idea what happened to Olivia.” Jethro’s face was a stiff mask, but Chaz could see the anger that seethed just beneath the surface.
Chazma pounced on Tom, not bothering to hide her irritation. It was obvious to her and she thought it should be obvious to Tom. “This is absurd, Tom. I don’t think it is your job to throw around innuendoes. Jethro McBain had nothing to do with Olivia’s disappearance. You have known him all your life and you know better. It is a waste of your valuable time, speaking of which, the timing is wrong, really wrong, for the—what you call, ‘serial ritual killer.’”
“What do ye mean, the timing is wrong?”