Myth and Magic

by Mae Clair

  After Alma left the kitchen in a huff, he looked at Veronica. “I’d like to see the personnel file on her—I’m assuming you have one—and the rest of the staff while you’re at it.”

  She stared in disbelief. “My staff? What for?”

  “Because it’s my job, and it’s part of the investigation. Just because someone’s on your payroll doesn’t mean they can’t have motive. Something’s going on here. Until I find out what it is, everyone’s a suspect.”

  Her eyes hardened. “Including me?”

  He couldn’t stop himself. The note of challenge in her tone was too tempting. Leaning forward until only inches separated them, he gripped her chin and lowered his voice to a husky whisper. “Butchering dogs isn’t your style, Ronnie.”

  Her eyes widened as if she wondered what the hell he was playing at. She smelled incredible, earthy and spicy, like autumn flowers washed in rainwater. He had no business getting so close, but he could have easily drowned in those bewitching eyes. Her bottom lip trembled slightly as her mouth parted in shock. He hadn’t meant to touch her. Hadn’t wanted to reawaken the raw attraction between them. But it simmered below the surface, waiting to be unleashed. He’d never stopped loving her. Never stopped wanting her. Before he could think it through, Caith lowered his head to kiss her.

  Veronica slapped his hand away, then slammed her palm against his chest, shoving backward. “My office is this way.” Seething, she stalked from the kitchen.

  Her anger crackled on the air even after she’d left. He deserved her hostility, was lucky she hadn’t gone for his throat the moment she’d seen him. He’d made a mess of things twelve years ago and was making a greater mess now. He had no business flirting with feelings they’d buried. No matter his motives in breaking off their relationship, his actions had been inexcusable. Time didn’t erase a wound like that.

  As he followed her down the hallway, Caith berated himself for his thread-bare control. He’d always had feelings for her, but hadn’t expected them to return with the force of a summer storm. As she sashayed ahead of him in those flattering slacks, he remembered his first glimpse of her when she was eleven and he was twelve.

  “She’s a girl,” Trask explained, “but she’s okay. Becky Kessler said her parents bought that white house at the end of Ripplemill Road. The one where Bobby Claymore used to live.”

  “Becky Kessler knows everybody’s business.” Caith huffed out a breath as he trekked up the hill beside his best friend, Merlin racing ahead of them. They’d spent the day slaying dragons and battling trolls along the edge of Stone Willow Lake. Grassy embankments, cool water, and leafy trees created a kingdom where Merlin was wizard and they were brave knights and warriors who triumphed over evil.

  Caith sent his friend a black glare. “Why’d you tell her we’d meet her anyway?” Girls had no business in mock sword fights or challenging ogres. Even now, the slender branch he’d fashioned into a make-believe sword dangled from his belt and bumped against his thigh as he walked. He liked the feel of it and wondered if a real sword swung that way. He’d have to ask his mother. She knew everything about folklore and myth.

  Trask chewed around a wad of bubble gum. “She isn’t like Becky. She knows about legends and stuff. I saw her reading something on King Arthur. She told me she likes Robin Hood and some minstrel guy named Tal-Tali…”

  “Taliesin,” Caith finished for him. He’d grown up on myth, courtesy of his mother’s family traditions. Over the years, he and Merlin had pulled Trask into their make-believe adventures.

  “She thought your name was funny,” Trask continued as the incline steepened and he dug in to keep pace. “She couldn’t say it, so I broke it down for her. Caith-el-den.”

  “You told her my real name?”

  “Don’t be stupid. She already knew about you. Everyone knows about the Breckwoods. My dad says your father owns the town.”

  Caith shrugged, not wanting to talk about it. Sometimes he hated the reverence that came with the Breckwood name. “I don’t care about that stuff. It’s for Aren and Galen.” They’d reached the top of the hill now, stopping beside Merlin who’d paused.

  “Look there.” Merlin pointed toward a copse of trees.

  A thin knobby-kneed girl in a faded sweatshirt and dirt-stained jeans was doing cartwheels on the hillside. Her hair was long and straw-colored, streaming down her back in a tangled ponytail. A single yellow rose, snipped just below the bloom, was tucked into her hairband.

  “That’s Ron,” Trask said with a goofy grin. He looked from Caith to Merlin. “Come on. You guys have to meet her.”

  She’d been distant at that first meeting. Distant and wary. After all, they were boys, and she was out of her element. But it hadn’t taken long. She’d been better with the pretend sword than him and could outrun both Merlin and Trask.

  He’d liked her from the start, then grown attracted to her about the time he turned sixteen. It was when he began to use sex as a crutch to ease the gut-twisting guilt he carried over Trask’s death. There had been plenty of older girls, some from the local college, all willing to teach him. He hadn’t cared about names or faces, and the need for escape made him a fast learner. For every moment he lost himself in the blissful mindlessness of sex, caring only for the release it brought, Caith treasured Veronica from afar.

  She deserved to be loved and cherished. The older he got, the stronger those emotions grew. But she deserved someone better. Someone who wasn’t tainted by death. Who wouldn’t put her in danger simply by being at her side. He’d spent many nights waking in fear, his chest so tight he couldn’t breathe, certain those who loved him would suffer.

  The fear had never gone away. It had simply become bearable, distant.

  Don’t hurt him! Trask’s voice echoed in his mind, resurrecting the sickening smell of model glue. Please… you can’t….

  Then bits of images he’d locked in a dark place he rarely allowed to surface: a damp room, the slant of greasy sunlight through a mud-splattered window, a man with a pock-marked face, the sharp, straight edge of a knife.

  Don’t hurt him! Trask had screamed.

  Shaken, Caith dragged a hand over his face. He was grateful when he stepped into Veronica’s office and could concentrate on something other than the past.

  The room wasn’t large, but homey, with bookcases, wooden file cabinets, and paisley curtains at the windows. A cherry desk topped with a computer screen, several folders, and scattered papers indicated the owner wasn’t always tidy. Paper clips, pens, pencils, a discarded newspaper, and an empty coffee cup added to the clutter. He guessed Ron, as manager, was the only one permitted a computer at the lodge.

  His back to the door, Caith slid into a chair across from the desk. “If you pull the personnel files, I’ll take them to my room. You do have a room for me?”

  Her gaze raked over him, decidedly cool. Most likely, she was still miffed about the near-kiss in the kitchen. Reaching into the top drawer of her desk, she snagged a key and tossed it at him. “The Blackbird Suite.”

  Caith caught the key in his left hand, his brows crinkling at her frosty tone. “Blackbird?”

  “Stone Willow has three floors not counting the basement, which you’ve already seen.” Veronica settled behind her desk. “The main level consists of my office and apartment, the lobby, kitchen, dining area, a room for gathering, and an enclosed porch to the rear. The second floor has six singular rooms, and the third, four suites—Blackbird, Hummingbird, Wood Thrush, and Nightingale.”

  “You gave me a suite instead of a room?” Caith tried to lighten the mood. “Someone must like me.”

  “Not me. It was Aren’s idea. As he’s the COO and you’re his brother, I guess that entitles you to some privileges. Besides, most everything that’s happened has been on the third floor or in the basement. We thought you should be where the action is.”

  “With the gobbly ghouls,” a man inserted behind Caith in a sarcastic tone.

/>   Caith spun quickly. The sight of the man poised in the doorway brought him to his feet. “Merlin.”

  He hadn’t bargained on such a sharp reaction. Something dark danced up his spine. Time stretched like a taut rope as the two regarded each other in silence. Finally, Caith offered his hand. “It’s been a long time.”

  Ignoring the overture, Merlin brushed past him. “Not long enough.” Stepping around Veronica’s chair, he placed his hands on her shoulders, leaning forward to press his lips against hers. The message was clear: She’s mine. Back off.

  “Merlin!” Veronica tried to swat him away, as if annoyed he’d use her as a trinket in a power play.

  “You haven’t changed much,” Caith observed sourly.

  Merlin chuckled.

  “I was telling Caith about the lodge,” Veronica interrupted with a sharp glance for Merlin. “He’s going to be staying in the Blackbird Suite.”

  “How fitting.” Merlin’s gaze slid across the desk to Caith. “Blackbirds and ravens, eating the souls of the dead.” The hint of a mocking smile stretched his lips. “Then again, you know all about dead things, don’t you?”

  “Merlin!” Veronica gasped at precisely the moment Caith launched himself at his brother. Catching Merlin by the collar, he slammed him up against the wall. “Shut up! You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Feigning innocence, Merlin held up his hands. “You’re overreacting, Caithelden. It was a simple comment.”

  “Fuck you. It was about Trask.” With a final shove, Caith released him.

  “What if it was?” Merlin straightened his shirt. “You think you can waltz into Coldcreek and not have to face that? You think everyone’s going to sidestep the issue so they don’t ruffle your feathers? The hell with that. I lived through it, too.”

  “The hell with you.” Caith headed for the door. “Veronica, when you’ve got the files together bring them to my suite. I’m going to unpack.”

  His fury carried him into the lobby and past the reception desk. He hit the front door with the flat of his hand, throwing it open. The force propelled it into the wall. Boiling, he took the steps two at a time. His Explorer was parked around the side of the lodge, tucked between trees where he’d hoped no one would see the vehicle until he was ready.

  But Merlin had.

  Merlin had shown up and reawakened all the bitter blood between them. It shouldn’t have happened. Brothers who’d been close in childhood torn apart by something ugly and vile.

  He blames me.

  Ignoring the enraged pounding of his heart, Caith wrenched open the back of the SUV and yanked his bags free. As he moved to close the vehicle, he raised his head and caught a startling glimpse of the house. Bracketed by the deepening night sky and tattered clouds, it looked somber and forbidding.

  With a soft curse, Caith carted his bags into the lodge and to the suite he was certain Veronica had handpicked for him because of its name.

  Chapter 6

  Veronica couldn’t decide who deserved her anger more. Caith had attempted to play on her emotions in the kitchen, while Merlin had shown up to stake his claim on her and toss ugly insinuations at his brother. As if they were still exclusive! She’d sent him on his way with a pointed rebuff, telling him she was busy and didn’t have time for adolescent games. He’d left whistling a melody, hands in his pockets, having accomplished what he’d set out to do.

  Typical Merlin.

  Hiking up the final flight of stairs to the third floor, she adjusted the stack of manila folders tucked under her arm. Was she Caith’s personal secretary now? How long before her irritating guest asked her to do after-hours work in his suite?

  A slow burn rose from her neck to her cheeks. As much as she wanted to deny it, she’d felt the startling pull of attraction between them in the kitchen. Anger had made her wrench away, but even that bottle-rocket rage couldn’t suppress what lay beneath—love she’d never truly abandoned, wounds she’d buried rather than healed.

  If Alma doesn’t lynch you for this Aren, I will.

  Pausing before Caith’s suite, she blew out a frustrated breath. She raised her hand to knock, but before she could complete the action, Caith opened the door. Had he been waiting for her? “How did you—”

  “It’s an old house, Veronica. The floorboards creak. I heard you coming down the hall.”

  She moved experimentally, rocking from foot to foot, coaxing a moan from the board beneath her feet. “I’ll have Lew take a look.” Brushing past him, she stepped inside.

  He’d already scattered papers over the desk in the outer living area where a sofa, comfortable chairs, and a small dining table created a homey environment. Toward the rear, the door to the bedroom stood open, giving her a glimpse of a worn green duffle bag and small suitcase he’d dumped on the bed.

  “Lew’s your caretaker?” Caith asked, closing the door.

  “And a friend.” Veronica plopped the folders on the desk, grateful for the vista of lake and woodlands unfurling beyond the open draperies. The sight made her feel less confined, his presence not quite as overpowering as when they’d been in her office. “Before you ask, I trust Lew implicitly. I’ve known him for five years. And, yes, his file is in the stack with the others.”

  Caith overlooked her sarcasm. “How are your parents?”

  “Enjoying retirement in Florida.” She started for the door. “I have to go.”

  “Wait.” Caith caught her arm, sending a jolt of unexpected warmth through her. “Ron, stay a minute. I need to talk to you.”

  He was too close, a sensation of nerve-tingling heat radiating from his hand. Needing to place distance between them, Veronica retreated to one of the stiff dinette chairs. “I have a lot to do, Caith. Four new guests arrive tomorrow.”

  “So business isn’t all bad?”

  “It’s a trickle of what it should be. Fortunately, not everyone left after the last incident.”

  “The dog?”

  “No, that was earlier. I’m sure Aren told you about the hand in the fireplace.”

  “He did, but I’d rather hear it from you.”

  “So you can tell me I’m crazy, too?”

  He frowned. “I didn’t say that.”

  Of course he wouldn’t. It was his job to indulge her, ask questions that would make her rethink what she’d seen.

  And what had she seen? How was her experience any different from Alma claiming she’d seen Warren Barrister’s ghost? If she didn’t believe the cook, writing the incident off as nervous fright, why should anyone believe her?

  “Did you know Duke Cameron is sheriff?” she asked.

  “I heard.” He didn’t seem impressed. “I understand no traces of evidence were found when his team checked the fireplace.”

  She bit her lip, realizing how foolish she must look. Flesh couldn’t burn in flame without leaving some type of residue behind. And yet she’d been so certain…just as Alma had.

  “Was there an odor?” Caith persisted.

  Veronica blinked. “Odor?”

  “Yeah.” He pulled out a chair, spun it around, and straddled it backward. “Without being graphic, something like that couldn’t burn without giving off a stench. You must have noticed it.”

  Veronica pulled her brows together. Why couldn’t she remember a smell? Why hadn’t the police asked her about it? No trace of charred flesh or human DNA in the hearth, and no odor that she could recall. Her story was pitiful.

  “I don’t remember an odor.” She tried not to sound defensive. “But I certainly didn’t imagine the phone call I got. A man called and told me to look in the fireplace right before I discovered that…thing.”

  “I don’t doubt that.” He shook his head. “Come on, Ron, don’t look so angry. You remember how we used to talk.”

  “I remember how you used to talk, and I used to listen.” The memory flashed bright and painful. She glanced at her hands, uncertain where the crush of emotion came fro
m. “Then one day you stopped talking, and I knew you’d gotten swallowed up in all that guilt over Trask’s death.”

  “Don’t.”

  Veronica glanced up sharply. “It’s coming up. Halloween, the anniversary. Caith, he wouldn’t want you—”

  “Was there a police report?” Lurching to his feet, Caith paced to the opposite side of the room. “On the incident with the hand? And the dog. What about the dog?”

  Even after so many years apart, Veronica recognized his telltale signs of nervousness, short, choppy sentences and the way he roamed restlessly like a caged animal. Realizing he’d never made peace with Trask’s brutal death, she sighed.

  “There’s an entire file of police reports.” She indicated the folders on the desk with a nod. “Everything from the dog to the hand, and some others you probably haven’t heard about. I also gave you a list of all the current guests and those expected to arrive tomorrow.” Standing, she started for the door, then paused. “The Hummingbird Suite is empty if you want to check it, but I have someone booked for tomorrow. I try to keep the third floor vacant if I can since that’s where the majority of problems occur. You and Dean Bowerman will be the only two guests on this floor. Unfortunately, he specifically requested the Hummingbird Suite, so there was little I could do.”

  Caith stopped pacing. “That’s where the dog was found?”

  Veronica hooked her hair behind her ear. “Yes. I think Mr. Bowerman has a side interest in the paranormal. I’ve had a few guests like him already.”

  Caith frowned. “A butchered dog isn’t paranormal. Who found it?”

  “George Stowe, an accountant with BI’s Baltimore office. He was staying in the suite and went out for a walk. When he came back, the dog was on the bed. It appears to have been a stray.”

  “How long was Stowe gone?”

  “Maybe an hour. It should be in the report. He packed up and left the next day. The majority of the guests went with him. I have to go now.”

  Caith crossed the room at a fast clip, reaching the door at the same time she did. He held it shut. “I wasn’t through.”