by Jenni Moen
“Honestly, I thought about coming to see you, sir, but Ryan warned me off.”
“Such a scaredy cat, that one. If he’d grow a pair, he could straighten his own life out.”
“Frankly, if this was the way you were going to treat me, I’m glad I didn’t.” I looked away impatiently. “I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but what is it you want to talk about? I have a lot on my mind.”
“I see things are getting hot and heavy with you and the Dearborn boy.”
“That’s it? You want to talk to me about my relationship with Quinn?” I’d just sat down, but I’d already had enough of the mangy old coot. I wasn’t going to talk about my love life with an old man who looked to be about a million years old. I started to stand, but a bony hand on my arm stopped me. Instinct caused me to recoil in my chair.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. Jealousy can be a bitter pill to swallow.” He pointed toward my house. “I had that once, too—what you and the Dearborn boy have—only, in my case, it wasn’t the figment of someone else’s imagination. It was real and pure and true. And someone stole it from me.”
The fact that this scraggly old man had found someone to love him was proof of miracles in and of itself. It gave me hope for my own future.
His laugh sounded about as brittle as he looked. “I was young once too, you know. Oh, about a million years ago.”
“Not you, too,” I said, placing my fingertips on my temples and groaning.
“Here and there as I wish. I can block what I don’t want to hear.”
Great.
“Sometimes. But it can be a real nuisance, too. But you completely understand, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“You can thank Janice for that. Things would be so different if she hadn’t liked to stick her nose where it didn’t belong.”
“What was your relationship with her? It doesn’t seem like you liked her very much yet you were here every day, even when she was running the place.”
Clive steepled his fingers and leaned in as if he was getting ready to let me in on a big secret. “Not many people know this, but Janice was my half-sister. We had different fathers, and we were raised separately. Our mother was, shall I say, free-spirited before being free-spirited was cool.”
My cheeks flared with heat. “I thought maybe you were lovers.”
He leaned back in his chairs with obvious distaste on his face. “Heavens, no.”
“I’m sorry. She never mentioned she had a brother.” It suddenly occurred to me that the old man probably had as much claim to the house as I did and might be why he was hanging around even after she was gone. “And I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Nonsense,” he said, reading my mind again. “What would I want with this place? She wanted you to have it, and it’s yours. Besides, I really like your bed and breakfast idea. Janice wouldn’t have been in the poor house if she’d thought of it herself.”
“Mr. Hansen, I won’t allow you to talk about her like that,” I said, my voice adamant. I wasn’t going to let this man—half-brother or not—disrespect my friend in the business she’d built.
“You’re sweet, Willow. I like you. Like her, your heart is in the right place, but you’re gullible. And you don’t know everything there was to know about Janice.”
“I know everything I need to know.” I looked at him defiantly, though something deep within me niggled my subconscious.
“How about this? Let me tell you my story. Maybe it will affect the story you’ll have to tell someday. When I’m done, you can decide whether I have the right to hold a grudge against my sister.”
All doubts aside, I really didn’t want to hear about how Janice had wronged this half-brother who she’d never talked about. I was worried about Quinn, and I needed to spend my energies thinking about his problems.
“I may have the answer you’re looking for if you listen closely,” he said addressing my thoughts.
I sent him a warning glare. “Fine, old man. You talk and I’ll listen, but I’m going to tell you what I tell Ryan. Stay out of my head.”
“Fair enough. It’s a deal.”
I sat quietly in my chair for almost an entire hour as he told me about the beautiful raven-haired fox who’d stolen his heart. According to Clive, she’d been so lovely she’d had more suitors than she’d known what to do with.
“Now, I wasn’t the most handsome of the lot and I wasn’t of her kind, but I had things to offer her,” he explained. “I had a decent job. I was using my powers for good, working at the apothecary back then. I bought a house in Old Town. I knew there were other men courting her, but what was happening between Clara and me wasn’t just special. It was extraordinary. I never doubted her and what we would become.”
He shredded a paper napkin as he talked, tearing it into tiny bits. They fluttered chaotically to the tabletop. “Then Janice heard around town about the other gentlemen callers. I don’t know if my dear sister doubted Clara or me … doesn’t matter … her intentions were good, but she was young and inexperienced,” he rambled. “She didn’t understand her own abilities and their limitations, let alone the karmic ramifications of testing free will.”
“A love potion?” I asked. I knew Janice had dabbled in that a bit.
“Even after her own husband died and right up until her death, she was an incurable romantic. But there’s a difference between love spells cast to find love and love spells cast to force love. To give me an edge over my competition, Janice put a spell on Clara that amplified her feelings for me and squashed any she might have had for the others. She attempted to force what I believed would have ultimately happened on its own if given time. A seed of love already planted. It needed water, not fertilizer, to grow into something wonderful.” With two only semi-cooperative arthritic hands, Clive brushed the napkin pieces into a mound, which he then artfully arranged into the shape of a heart.
“What happened?” I asked completely enthralled with his story.
“Janice learned at all of our expense that one should never attempt to force two people together. Even with the best of intentions, misused magic can have horrific consequences.” He looked out the window toward my house and then up to a window on the second floor where I knew Quinn was working. “Negative energies affect people differently. Some people are able to handle it better than others are. Clara was not. It drove her to madness.”
His grief rendered us both speechless for a few moments. Finally, he pulled his eyes away from my house and stared at the paper heart he’d built. “Just as Janice had directed her to, my love chose me over the others.” With a shaky hand, he traced a finger over the heart.
“She chose me, but she didn’t choose us. All I have left of her is the note she wrote right before she threw herself from the cliff out at Fool’s Gold Hill.” He leaned forward, and with a single puff of breath, blew the paper heart. Tiny bits of napkin scattered across the table’s surface. Some slipped off the table. A few fell into my lap. The heart destroyed, and mine ached for his.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Hansen.”
“The sad truth of it is I think she would’ve chosen me on her own if left alone, but I’ll never know for sure.” He leaned back in his chair and looked me directly in the eyes. “I’d like to say Janice learned her lesson, but I know better than that. Her intentions were always good—never ever doubt it—but her execution was off at times.”
“Mr. Hansen, thank you for sharing your story with me, but what does this have to with me?”
“One should never try to change someone else’s destiny. If you want to understand your friend, you need to read the books.”
The books.
It was the third time Clive had mentioned the books. “What books, Mr. Hansen?”
He huffed as if I should already have figured it out on my own. “Janice’s diaries. She kept notes. All of the women in my family did. They’re somewhere in that old house. Find them and go back to 1962. You can read about Clara on
your own. Twenty years later, you’ll find Quinn Dearborn’s name. Eons before that is the Balere-Birdwell feud. It’s all in the books. Knowledge is more powerful than magic, my dear, sweet Willow.”
“I have to go,” I said, jumping from my chair.
He nodded with a sad, satisfied smile on his face. “I thought you might. Godspeed, my dear.”
I ran into the kitchen, tossing my apron into the basket. “Ryan? Can you and Les handle lunch without me?”
“Sure. Why?”
“Were you not listening to my conversation with Old Man Hansen?”
“Not much. The old geezer doesn’t let me in most of the time. I hate conversations where I only get one side of the story.”
I rolled my eyes. “That’s how the rest of the world lives, and we seem to manage. Listen, I have to go. The answer to Quinn’s problems is in Janice’s old diaries in the basement.”
“Go,” he said pointing at the back door. “I’ll let Les know.”
I flew across the yard with a singular purpose, barely even registering the heavy clouds looming over Woodland Creek. I slipped into the house through the back door and listened for Quinn. Music and banging drifted down the stairs. I didn’t want him to know I was in the house. As quietly as possible, I tiptoed down the hall, avoiding the squeaky boards, and opened the door to the basement. I didn’t plan to reemerge again until I knew why Quinn was in Janice’s books.
QUINN
THE GATE WAS CLOSED WHEN I got there, but it didn’t necessarily mean I was alone. Tim kept it locked whether he was there or not to keep out trespassers and poachers. I parked my truck by the fence and hoisted a leg over the gate. Technically, I was a trespasser too since I hadn’t replied to any of the text messages flying around all afternoon.
Hunting during the first snowfall was a silly tradition of no real strategic merit. It wasn’t as if the white stuff made it more likely to get a deer, but it was something we’d done all through high school. I knew now it was a tradition they’d kept up all of these years. I wouldn’t tell the guys this, but Willow’s idea for the evening sounded better than hanging out in the brutal cold by myself.
I stepped carefully over the land, mindful not to make any noise that might scare off an animal. The idea that I would actually find her was a ridiculous one. Even if I spotted a doe, there would be no way really to know if it was mine. There were literally thousands of doe in Craft County. As fun as it was to imagine her walking right up to me again, it was unrealistic. As gentle and docile as they looked, deer were just like any other wild animal—unpredictable and easily spooked.
When I made it to the blind, I eyed it warily. Climbing inside wasn’t appealing, but neither was freezing my nuts off outside. The cold front had come in earlier that afternoon, and even with the protection of the trees, the wind was wickedly frigid. I climbed the ladder, hoping my dismount would be a little more graceful than last time and spare me a trip to the hospital.
After I had settled inside, I patted the pocket of my jacket to make sure I hadn’t forgotten the carrots in the truck. I’d wanted the big kind with the fluffy greenery on top because nothing said thank you like fluffy greenery, but all I’d found in Willow’s fridge was a bag of baby carrots.
I unzipped my jacket a little so I could pull out my binoculars. I wasn’t sure how long I’d give her to make an appearance, but I had some time to kill since it was Willow’s late night at school. A part of me wanted to see my little savior again, and another part of me hoped she was far, far away. With the guys coming out later, I didn’t want her hanging around. She wasn’t their target, but if any of them had bagged a buck the weekend before, they’d be limited to taking a doe. If she showed at all, she was going to have to dine and dash.
I put the binoculars to my face and prepared myself for a long wait.
WILLOW
THE WATER HEATER CLICKED ON and I nearly jumped out of my skin. The basement was definitely spookier when you were reading someone’s private diary of spells.
As tempting as it was to find the book from 1962 and read Janice’s version of Clive’s story, it would have to wait. Quinn was my only priority as I skimmed through the entries.
Luckily, Clive had given me a clue as to where I should start. Twenty years after Clara’s death would have been 1982, but since Quinn wasn’t even born until 1983, I started there. I was well into the month of August when I found something promising.
August 19, 1983
Margaret Dearborn visited today. Lovely young lady in a bit of a pickle. The girl looks as if she might burst. What to do? What to do? She seems like a sweet thing, and she’s had such a rough go of it. Her story was compelling, but I should speak with Clive first.
After she had left, I had another visitor. Seems the Reyburns are in need of some quick cash. Since I sure would hate for him not to be able to pay his bill at the country club, I obliged him.
Footbath for Money:
Ingredients:
~Black Cohosh Root
~Cup of boiling water
~Small bottle
Directions: Soak the root in the cup of boiling water for fifteen minutes. Strain the water and throw away the root. Put the liquid in the bottle for six days and leave it alone. On the sixth day, rub the liquid all over the soles of your feet. Be alert to intuition until money comes your way.
I found it interesting that Tim’s father had come to Janice because of money problems. I would bet my own measly bank account that Tim, who’d never seemed to want for anything, had no idea his father had stooped so low as to use witchcraft to pay the bills.
More interesting than the Reyburn’s financial problems was Margaret. It seemed safe to assume the pickle she was in was Quinn. I read on to find out, and three days later, the Dearborn name was mentioned again, but only in passing.
August 22, 1983
The moon is full and the crazies were at the market today. If banishing spells weren’t off-limits, I would still be following the bastard who stole my parking spot just so I could watch him do U-turns to get away from me.
Speaking of my conscience, I talked with Clive today. He disapproves of my plan to help the Dearborn girl. Back to the drawing board.
The entry hadn’t provided me with much information, but I had to smile at Janice’s twisted sense of humor. I missed it terribly. If she’d still been around to guide me through this mess with Quinn, she would have made me see things from her unique perspective.
Five more days had passed before Quinn’s mother had paid her another visit.
August 27, 1983
Margaret came back again today. I think her water may have broken while sitting in my kitchen. That or the dishwasher is leaking again.
She is already feeling the labor pains, and she suffers all by herself. She is giving her child her name rather than his father’s because she doesn’t want the town to know the father’s true identity. The irony of it is not lost on me. He will carry the name of Dearborn to protect him from the fact that deer born may be exactly what he is.
I’m torn. But who better to decide what is right for the child than his mother? Russell Buckley’s death was felt by both the two-natured and human communities. He was a great leader and a talented healer. Anyone would be proud to call him their father, but she only dated him a few months before she became pregnant and his would be some big shoes to fill. Margaret doesn’t want her baby to grow up in The Legend’s shadow when he may not even inherit the gene. She wants him to live a quiet, happy life, no different from her. I can hardly blame her.
Nevertheless, the situation causes me to worry. I will have to make Clive understand. He knows as well as anyone what it’s like to lose the love of your life. There’s a fifty-percent chance all of this worry is for nothing anyway. If the child doesn’t inherit the gene, any magic will be non-magic.
I told her to return if she can keep the child’s true identity a secret for six years.
PS. – It should be noted for future reference that Gus Re
yburn is allergic to Cohosh. Hospital bills offset windfalls. Oy vey.
My knuckles were white from tightly gripping the book. I’d suspected Quinn might be from the same bloodline as The Legend, but it had never occurred to me that he was his son. I tossed the book aside and hunted through the stack for the book from 1989. I flipped pages until I reached the end of August.
August 30, 1989
What a beautiful boy Quinn Dearborn is. Such a happy child too. Makes me think that Art’s and my decision not to have a child of our own may have been a mistake. What I wouldn’t give for a daughter. If I weren't opposed to conjuring, I’d conjure up a little brunette with big chocolate eyes … but I digress …
Margaret Dearborn has upheld her end of our deal, and so I made good on mine. It is too soon to tell whether the boy has inherited the gene, but the protective cloaking spell should mask any two-natured qualities he may have. No shifter will be able to sense him as long as he is of healthy mind. If he can withstand the pull of the ley lines and leave Woodland Creek behind, we may never know what he could be.
While I may not agree with her, I know she only has her child’s best interest at heart, and I think I may have found a way to offset the effects of the cloaking spell in a way that will please Clive. For three years, I have researched a protection spell that will make him more susceptible to any non-shifter magic and powers. So while the shifters may not sense him, his true destiny may find a way no matter what that may be.
Cloaking Spell:
Ingredients:
~an open mind
Directions: Chant three times through:
He’s a mere human can’t you see?
For so long as he believes.
His energies are plain Jane gray
For there is no other way.
Protection Spell:
Ingredients:
~an open mind