by Eloise Flood
She picked up a slightly newer-looking book. “De Præstigiis et Incantationibus Dæmonum et Necromanticorum,” she read. She blew out her breath, frustrated. “Oh, great. Didn’t any of these people write in English?”
She’d come into Caer Wydyr with high hopes. An antiquarian bookstore devoted specifically to books about magic—what could be better? Phoebe was hungry for knowledge about the secret world she and her sisters were now part of, but it was so hard to sift through all the fluff and bogus information.
The only book Phoebe had ever come across that had really told her anything significant was The Book of Shadows, the huge, magical volume of spells handed down from mother to daughter in her family. It was the record of the accumulated wisdom of Phoebe’s ancestors. Invaluable as The Book of Shadows was, though, it didn’t tell her everything she wanted to know. It didn’t give her a sense of witchcraft in the world, of its scope and history.
But it doesn’t look like I’m going to learn much here, she thought. Not if I can’t read any of the books!
She turned to put De Præstigiis back on the shelf. As she did, she overbalanced and lurched slightly. The big, heavy book began to slide out of her hands. Phoebe clutched frantically at it. The pages splayed open, and a folded fragment of what looked like parchment fluttered out from the middle of the book.
Phoebe managed to catch the book and close it without tearing any of the fragile old pages. She set it back on the shelf, then knelt to pick up the bit of parchment.
But as her fingers closed on the brownish scrap, another hand shot down and snatched it. Startled, Phoebe glanced up—and found herself face-to-face with the man in the black leather pants.
Phoebe caught her breath. His face was only inches from hers. His eyes were gray-blue, the color of the ocean after a storm. His gaze bored into hers, insistent, fierce.
For a moment they crouched there, frozen. How come I didn’t hear him coming? Phoebe thought stupidly.
Then she felt him tugging on the parchment. The action broke the spell. “Careful, you’ll rip it!” she said.
“I need it!” He tugged again, harder. To her alarm, Phoebe felt the brittle parchment start to crumble under her fingers.
She let it go. “Okay, okay, I guess you win,” she said, irked. “You should be more careful. Haven’t you ever heard of ‘you break it, you buy it’?”
He didn’t reply. He was scanning the parchment intently. Then he let it drop to the floor. His face was full of despair.
Phoebe stared at him. What could be so important about an old piece of parchment? Forgetting her irritation, she placed a hand on his arm. “Hey, are you—” she began.
She was going to say “okay?” but she never got that far. The vision came swiftly, suddenly, jerking her backward with the force of its arrival.
Wind, whipping across a gray, desolate moor. A man—this man—but wearing strange drab, shapeless clothes and a shaggy fur cloak.
He stood with his back to the wind, sheltering something in his arms. A child—a baby so new it still had that wet, mottled look. Its eyes were open, though. It gazed up the man, and he gazed down at it. His face was turned away from Phoebe, so that she couldn’t see his expression.
And Phoebe, watching them both, felt a wave of love so strong it nearly took her breath away. Love—and deep, wrenching loss. Because wherever this man and this child were, she couldn’t reach them.
The vision faded. Gradually the bookshop swam into focus again—the long, dusty wooden shelves lined with books, the dim globe lamps that hung from the ceiling. Hazily, Phoebe noticed that the black-haired man was staring at her with a look of puzzlement.
Then everything started to go dark again, as if she was entering a tunnel. Phoebe had time to wonder why the man’s eyes suddenly widened with alarm.
Then she pitched forward, fainting.
CHAPTER
2
There was a roaring in Phoebe’s ears. She was vaguely aware of strong arms catching her as she fell. But everything seemed so far away. Gradually the roaring lessened. The room began to seem lighter again.
Phoebe found herself sitting on a small stepladder, leaning forward so that her head was between her knees. She glanced up and saw the plump, middle-aged shop clerk staring down at her with a worried expression. Next to her stood the man with the long black hair.
At the sight of him, Phoebe’s vision flooded back into her mind. Her heartbeat speeded up. What had it meant? Who was he? Who was that baby? Could it possibly have been . . . hers? Theirs? Was that what all those emotions she’d felt were telling her?
Calm down, she warned herself. Take it slowly!
“She just fell down in a faint,” the man was saying to the shop clerk. Phoebe noticed that his accent had a soft burr in it, but she couldn’t place it.
“Are you all right?” the woman asked Phoebe. “Shall I ring for a doctor?”
“No, no,” Phoebe said quickly. “I’m fine. I just felt kind of dizzy for a moment. I think it must be jet lag.” She smiled reassuringly.
“Jet lag?” the man with the long black hair repeated.
“Yeah, you know. When you fly to a different time zone and your body clock gets all out of whack,” Phoebe said. “Why—do you call it something else over on this side of the Atlantic?”
“I—I—” The man seemed flustered.
“No, we call it jet lag, too,” the clerk said with a laugh. “Why don’t I just make you a quick cup of tea, then? It’ll pick you right up.” She bustled off before Phoebe could protest.
Alone with the black-haired man, Phoebe suddenly felt nervous. She licked her lips. “So, uh—thanks for catching me,” she ventured. She cringed internally as she heard the inane words. Ooooh, that was smooth!
She stood up. “I’m Phoebe Halliwell,” she added, sticking out her hand. “I’m an American— but I guess you already figured that out, huh?”
He gave a sudden, boyish grin. “Well, I’m not from around here myself,” he confided. “I’m Niall. Niall Oldman. And I am delighted to meet a fellow stranger.” He took her outstretched hand and, instead of shaking it, pressed it lightly to his lips.
At his touch, Phoebe’s heartbeat sped up again, but for a different reason this time. He sure is attractive, she found herself thinking. Normally, she would have found a flamboyant gesture like that kiss a little silly. But when Niall did it, somehow it seemed entirely natural.
She took a deep breath. “So, what brings you to Hay-on-Wye?” she asked, trying to ignore the flutters in her stomach.
“I have business with this place,” he replied. Phoebe frowned at his odd phrasing. Then he glanced at her almost shyly. “Mixed with pleasure, at the moment.”
Phoebe couldn’t help smiling. “Are you a book dealer?” she asked.
Bong! The grandfather clock on the far wall began to chime. Niall glanced at it, then back at Phoebe.
“I must go,” he said in a regretful voice. “I have people to meet. I wish I hadn’t.”
“Oh.” Phoebe spoke lightly, trying to quell her sudden, sharp disappointment. “Well, thanks again for catching me.”
“It was my pleasure,” he told her. His gaze lingered on hers. “I really mean that.”
He turned to go. Stop him! Phoebe told herself. Don’t just let him walk out!
“Hey. Would you, um, would you have dinner with me tonight?” she called after him.
He turned, raising an eyebrow. “You’re a forward girl.” Then a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “I like it.”
Phoebe laughed out loud. “Well, at least one of us has some guts. Pick me up at the Trelawney Hotel at seven, okay?”
He sketched a quick bow. “I’ll be there.” Then he left.
This is all just too weird, Phoebe thought. She was still gazing after him, mentally replaying her vision, when the shop clerk hurried out from behind a curtain with a steaming mug of tea. “Here you are,” she said, pressing the mug into Phoebe’s hand. “Drink it. It’ll
put the pink back in your cheeks.” She paused and peered at Phoebe’s face. “Well, now, I see the pink’s already back. Feeling better, are you?”
“I feel fine,” Phoebe replied. She shook her head as if to clear it. “I think.”
Late that afternoon Prue strolled down the street, heading back toward the hotel. She’d stopped and bought a cold bottle of white wine at a little shop. A glass of wine and a bath before dinner, she thought. Sounds perfect!
It had been a long and tiring day, but she was pleased with the progress she’d made. She’d had another meeting after her shopping break with Piper. Then she’d spent a long time browsing in the town’s many bookshops. She’d bought a book for Lloyd Claiborne, and more importantly, she’d contacted two dealers who could probably lead her to some real finds.
Prue was about a block from the hotel when she caught sight of a fruit stand. It sat at the corner of a crooked lane lined with neat little houses. The hand-lettered sign that hung off the folding card table read “Homegrown fruit and veg. Blodwen Jeffries, prop.” At the end of the day, there wasn’t much produce left, but still, the scent of ripe strawberries drifted through the air and made Prue’s mouth water, even from several yards away.
She smiled at the white-haired woman who sat next to it—Blodwen Jeffries herself, presumably. “Those strawberries smell so good!”
“Right out of my own little bit of garden,” the old lady said proudly. “I picked them just this morning. Go ahead, try one.” She held out a wooden carton to Prue.
Prue picked up one of the ripe berries and popped it into her mouth. It was sweet and tangy and delicious.
“Wow,” she said. “The taste reminds me of summer evenings when I was little. My mother used to bake this incredible strawberry-rhubarb pie.” She felt a little pang as the memory hit her. Her mother had died before Prue was even ten years old. The official story was that she drowned in a swimming accident, but Prue knew better. Her mother had really been killed by a demon.
“That pie sounds lovely, dear,” the old lady said. “I used to make an angel cake with strawberries and whipped cream on top. Owen—that was my husband—used to say, ‘Blodwen, your angel cake could tempt the devil himself.’ ” She sighed. “But since I lost Owen, there hasn’t been anyone to make it for.”
“Oh. I’m so sorry,” Prue said softly.
“Ah, well. He’s been gone almost two years now,” Blodwen Jeffries said. “You get used to it.” She smoothed the collar of her striped blouse and gave Prue a smile. “Now, dear, can I sell you any strawberries?”
Prue hesitated. Their hotel suite did have a minibar with a refrigerator. And the strawberries were so good. . . .
“I’ll take one of these small containers,” she decided. “My sisters love strawberries almost as much as I do. I’m sure we’ll finish them off in five minutes.”
“Well, when you want more, come see me. I’m here every day, rain or shine,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “And there’ll be cherries in a day or two. My tree is loaded down this year.” She turned and pointed down the lane to a whitewashed cottage surrounded by a high brick wall. “You can see it from here,” she added proudly.
Prue looked. She could see the upper branches of a smallish tree over the top of the wall, but she couldn’t have said whether it was a cherry tree or a chestnut tree. “I’ll take your word for it,” she said, laughing. “And I’ll be waiting for those cherries. See you!”
“Lovely chatting with you, dear,” Mrs. Jeffries called as Prue walked off.
Prue was still smiling as she entered the lobby of the Trelawney Hotel. She skipped up the stairs and threw open the door to the suite she was sharing with Piper and Phoebe.
She paused in the doorway, taking in the scene that met her eyes. Piper was lounging on the daybed, watching Phoebe, who stood in front of the full-length mirror, frowning at her reflection. She wore a clingy blue slip-skirt and an acid green cropped top. Clothes were strewn all over the room.
“Hey!” Prue greeted her sisters. “What have you two been up to all afternoon? And what happened to this room? Did our suitcases explode or something?” Her eyes narrowed as she took in Phoebe’s footwear. “Aren’t those my sandals?”
“They’re the only ones that work with this skirt,” Phoebe explained. “I didn’t think you’d mind. You don’t, do you?”
“You aren’t going to believe this, Prue,” Piper put in. “While you’ve been working hard all day, and I’ve been improving my mind”—she held up a slim book called Wildflowers of the Wye Valley —”Phoebe here has been honing both her dating and her witching skills. She met a guy in a bookstore and had a vision of him holding her baby. She thinks he’s Mr. Right.”
“What?” Prue demanded.
“I didn’t say that, Piper,” Phoebe protested. “I said he might be. You can say that about any guy before you’ve gone out with him. Anyway, I’m not sure it was my baby. Although I did feel that, you know, maternal urge thing when I saw it. And it did kind of look like me, now that I think about—”
“Hold it. Hold everything.” Closing the door carefully behind her, Prue stepped into the room. “Will someone please tell me what’s going on?” As Piper and Phoebe both started to talk at once, she held up her hands. “One at a time. From the beginning. And in full sentences, please.”
“Okay, here’s what happened,” Phoebe began. “See, I was in Caer Wydyr, that magic bookshop, and I saw this guy. . . .”
As Phoebe described how she’d tussled over some piece of parchment with this man and how she’d had a powerful vision when she touched his arm, Prue began to feel more and more alarmed. Was it really a chance meeting?
In her experience, there was no such thing as coincidence. Not when you were one of the Charmed Ones. There were too many beings out there trying to destroy the sisters, either to steal their powers or just to get rid of such a powerful force for the good.
“Anyway,” Phoebe was saying, “I couldn’t just let him walk out of my life. Not without finding out what my vision was all about.” She shrugged. “So I asked him to dinner. He’s picking me up at seven.”
Prue’s mouth fell open. Trust Phoebe to be so reckless. “Phoebe, you don’t know anything about him!” she protested.
“Yes, I do. He’s a good guy. I can tell,” Phoebe declared. “I felt it in my vision. Whatever else is going on with him, I really don’t think he means me any harm.” She gave Prue a pleading look. “Come on, Prue. I have good instincts about this kind of thing.”
Prue blew out her breath, frustrated. “I know you do, Phoebe. It’s just . . .”
Piper glanced at her watch. Her eyes widened. “Did you say seven?” she asked. “Because that’s—”
A knock sounded on the door.
“Now,” Piper finished. “Nice to know he’s punctual.”
Phoebe’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, no! I’m not finished dressing. And this room is a wreck!”
“You look great,” Piper assured her. “As for the room—”
“Forget the room!” Prue snapped. “I just want to check this guy out. Someone has to make sure he’s safe.” She strode to the door and threw it open.
The man who faced her was extremely good-looking, that she had to admit. Not exactly her type—she liked them a little less flamboyant— but definitely very sexy. Just over six feet tall, with dark hair pulled back in a ponytail . . . broad shoulders, narrow hips . . . chiseled cheekbones . . . a slightly hawklike nose. . . .
It doesn’t mean a thing, she reminded herself. Evil can look very attractive on the outside.
She stepped to the side to let him in. “I’m Prue Halliwell,” she said coolly. “Phoebe’s big sister.”
Phoebe came forward and took his arm. “She looks tough, but she’s really a softie. Don’t let her scare you,” she told him. She gestured at Piper. “That’s my other sister, Piper. Prue, Piper, this is Niall Oldman. Okay, introductions complete. Niall, shall we—”
“Wait a minute!” Pru
e could see that Phoebe was trying to avoid the third degree. But she wasn’t going to get away that easily.
“What’s your hurry?” Prue asked. “I’ve got a bottle of wine. Why don’t we all have a drink before you two go?”
“Lovely!” Niall said immediately. He took a seat on the daybed. Phoebe threw Prue a warning look, then sat beside him.
Prue opened the bottle while Piper brought glasses over from the minibar. “So, Niall, where are you from?” Prue asked casually as she poured the wine into the glasses.
“Oh, a bit southwest of here,” Niall said. “A little town you’ve never heard of.”
“I see.” Well, that was nice and evasive, Prue thought. “And what are you doing here in Hay?”
Niall gave her a bland, amiable smile. “Research. I’m a scholar, actually. Of Arthurian legends.”
“You’re kidding!” Phoebe burst out. Her eyes shone with delight as she turned to Piper and Prue. “Is this fate or what?”
Or what indeed, Prue thought. How convenient is it that he specializes in the exact subject that Phoebe’s so gaga about?
“And you?” Niall asked her. “Do you . . . work?”
Prue almost choked on her wine. “D-do I work?” she stuttered. What kind of chauvinistic question was that? “Of course I do. You sound as if you don’t approve.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean that!” He seemed genuinely surprised. “I think it’s wonderful to see women doing so much.”
Weird, Prue thought. Something is off here.
“Prue is a freelance antiques dealer,” Phoebe put in quickly. She shot Prue an anxious look. “She’s here buying books for a client back home.”
“So where are you staying?” Piper asked him.