by Mae Clair
“Derrick,” Caith warned.
“You should go,” Veronica coaxed at his side. “Show Derry all those great places we used to hide as kids. I’ll go with you.”
Derrick grinned at her over the counter, his eyes bright with excitement. His kid had just found a co-conspirator.
“Looks like you’re out-voted, Caithelden.” Aren glanced at his watch. “So let’s get moving. I want to be home before Melanie gets back with the boys.”
Caith glanced from Derrick’s expectant face to Veronica’s challenging stare, then to Aren. None of them were playing fair. Irritated, he glared at his brother. “If I do this, you just forfeited your cheap shot.”
“Deal. Now get your butt in the car. I can only handle one moody eight-year-old at a time.”
* * * *
Before they left the lodge, Caith retrieved the soil sample he’d taken at the lake and gave it to Aren to have analyzed. Derrick wanted to stay at Stone Willow that night, and since there really wasn’t a need for pretense any longer, and Aren was willing to bend the rules, Caith agreed. He took his own vehicle, getting Derrick settled into the back while Veronica rode with Aren. The drive wasn’t long, and within twenty minutes they pulled into the circular driveway at his parent’s gated residence.
Caith had forgotten how brooding the house appeared with its distinctive gothic lines. His father had it designed around his mother’s love of folklore, incorporating massive chimneys, steeply arched windows, and multiple roof peaks. A marble fountain, littered with dry leaves, dominated the center of the driveway. Caith remembered playing there as a child, the water spouting up in magical streams, glittering with the glow of multi-colored lights. His father had often joked he would have been happy with a simple cape cod, but would settle on nothing less than a storybook castle for Caith’s mother, his queen.
When they stepped from the car, Derrick abandoned him, racing to the house after Aren. Caith moved far more slowly, walking around the side, re-familiarizing himself with the grounds. Treed and landscaped, the earth unfurled in flat parcels and gentle slopes, connected by cobblestone paths and raised gardens. Statues of stone, marble, and iron made a host of fantastical sentries beneath trees and trellised walkways. No garden gnomes for his mother. Brooding gargoyles, fierce dragons, and majestic unicorns guarded the Breckwood estate.
Caith eyed the entrance to the nearest garden, still blooming with late fall flowers. A black bird, forged from iron, perched on a gothic-looking gate, its wings unfurled to the sky.
“Mom, what does my name mean?”
With a soft smile, Caith’s mother brushed the thick hair from his forehead.
“You’re the raven, Caithelden. Strong and swift, like the bird from the Myth of Orlen. It was born after a mighty battle when Prince Kenrick fought his brother Prince Orlen for the throne of their father.”
“And Prince Kenrick died.” Caith knew the legend. He’d heard it countless times.
“Yes. But Orlen wept, sobbing bitter tears that he’d slain his own flesh. No one could console him, not even his men. So a wizard was summoned, and from Orlen’s tears he conjured a raven to carry Kenrick to the next life. And that is why the raven haunts battlefields, collecting souls who pass from one world to the next.”
“Derry went inside with Aren.”
Caith jerked when Veronica appeared at his shoulder. Frazzled at being caught unaware, he nodded curtly.
She looked past him to the gate with its dark sentry. “Bird watching or reminiscing?”
His immediate retort, a defensive reaction, died on his tongue. Her expression was open, almost playful, those remarkable green eyes betraying a thread of the mischievousness he remembered from childhood. Although it was dark, he saw her face clearly, outlined in the soft glow of solar lighting. Her hair glimmered with the kiss of awakening starlight.
“Remembering.” What good was the past? With her face upturned to his, her lips petal-soft and inviting, all he wanted to do was drown in the present. To claim her mouth with his and sink in the slow emersion of a mind-numbing kiss.
Disturbed, he jammed his hands into his pockets. “I should go inside and get this over with.”
Veronica touched his arm. “We used to have fun here. Do you remember?”
The light pressure of her fingers seared his sleeve with fire. He kept his hands in his pockets, fighting the desire to drag her against him. “I remember.”
“Your father made us that great play fort in the trees. He came out and pretended to be a troll so we could attack him with our swords. He spent all afternoon with us…letting you and Trask jump all over him and pull him down into the grass. Merlin turned him into stone, but I did something to set him free. I remember he threw me over his shoulder and said in a loud troll-like voice that I was too scrawny to eat.”
Caith chuckled. “You were scrawny. Like a toothpick in jeans.” He looked her over from head to toe, his gaze lingering on her slender curves. “But I wouldn’t think of calling you that now.” Snatching her hand, he pulled her toward the front of the house. “Come on, Ron. Time to go into the dragon’s lair.”
* * * *
Caith found Derrick and Aren in the back by following the trail of his kid’s coat, sweatshirt, and shoes. He picked up each item as he went, locating his brother and son in a two-story formal drawing room with an elaborate buttressed ceiling.
Derrick was flushed, one side of his shirt hanging sloppily over his pants. He looked like he’d run a race and still had massive amounts of energy to spare. Typical. Caith didn’t know where the kid packed his endless supply of enthusiasm.
“Uncle Aren showed me your old room, Dad. He said it’s still the same.”
Caith set the clothes aside on an ornate high-backed chair, and cast his brother a suspicious glance. “What do you mean?”
“Go see for yourself.” Aren shrugged nonchalantly. “Everything’s the way you left it.”
“I wanna see downstairs.” As if realizing his father wasn’t the best choice of tour guide, Derrick appealed to his uncle. “You said there’s a pool table and a big fireplace. Come on, Uncle Aren, I wanna see.”
“I’ll show you, Derry,” Veronica offered.
She’d been to the house often enough over the years, Caith guessed she knew it like her own apartment.
“Okay!” Grinning, Derrick bolted into the hall. The sound of his stocking feet thumping across polished hardwood echoed through the room. After a few seconds, the sound evened out into a long, gliding slide. “Dad, you should see this, it’s so cool. Like ice.”
Caith pinched the bridge of his nose. “He’s gonna knock something over.”
“Let him enjoy himself.” Veronica nudged Caith toward the front of the house and the multi-tiered staircase leading to the upper level. “Do something with yourself, Caithelden. Aren has paperwork to collect. I’ll look after Derry.”
He frowned, uncertain. “All right. Just, uh…don’t say anything about Trask. I never told him what happened when I was a kid. Let’s keep it that way, okay?”
After she left and Aren departed, Caith wandered upstairs. The house was much as he remembered, sprawling and lavish with high vaulted ceilings, gleaming woodwork, and gothic-inspired windows. The furnishings included a blend of Victorian antiques, Celtic artwork, and medieval-inspired decor—ornate wall tapestries, claw-footed chairs, massive candlesticks, and minted replicas of broadswords, sabers, and shields.
When he opened the door to his bedroom, it was like stepping into the past. Aren hadn’t lied. It was exactly as he remembered. The household staff had kept the room clean and tidy, but otherwise hadn’t disturbed a thing. The same artwork and posters hung on the walls, now terribly dated for the passing of time. The same books stood on the shelves, everything he had loved to read from T. H. White’s The Once and Future King to Conan Doyle’s master detective Sherlock Holmes. Both had helped him pass numerous Halloweens, closeted in his room as he tried to bloc
k the noise of his parents’ lavish parties below.
Shoving the memory aside, Caith opened a few drawers, rummaging through the clothes he’d left behind, the trinkets he’d collected over the years. When he found a Swiss army knife he and Trask had used to slice their thumbs, mingle their blood, and declare themselves brothers, pressure mushroomed in his chest. Breathing deeply, he nudged the knife aside and unearthed other mementos.
A pack of matches from an out-of-town bar where he’d had his first underage drink, a cigarette lighter from the one and only time he’d tried to smoke. He’d swiped it from his dad’s desk. Later, Trask had stolen two cigarettes from his father’s pack of Kools, and they’d snuck into the trees for their first taste of nicotine. Both had pretended to enjoy the smoke, neither wanting to be the first to wuss out, even though they’d coughed and gagged through most of it.
Idiots.
There was a glow-in-the-dark yo-yo, a magnifying glass in a leather case they’d once used as a talisman against an imaginary army of trolls, and a faded green ball cap, frayed and worn at the edges.
Trask had rarely been without it except that fateful day when the black car had rolled to a stop behind them. Pulling the cap free, Caith slumped to a seat on the bed. It was only a hat, and Trask was gone. He set it aside and reached for the top drawer on the nightstand. Unlike those on the dresser, it refused to budge. He fiddled with it, applying force, and tugged harder. The increased pressure made it pop too quickly. The whole thing came free in his hand, disgorging a half dozen tubes of model glue, their sides split and oozing.
The odor struck Caith in the gut like a sledgehammer.
A cold room, moldy and damp. The dismal slant of fading sunlight through a mud-splattered window, washing the room in a sickly gray haze. Trask’s shoulder was pressed against Caith’s, both of them trembling with terror and cold.
A dark-haired man sat at a table, ignoring them as he calmly pieced together the plastic sides of a model truck. The stench of glue, sharp and astringent, filled the room until Caith couldn’t breathe. Until that lone scent encompassed every horror and fear he associated with his kidnapping.
Lurching from the bed, he bolted for the bathroom and doubled-up over the sink. Memory ripped through him with a viciousness he hadn’t felt in years. Grinding his teeth, he swallowed back bile until the sickness and memories passed. When he could breathe easier, he returned to the bedroom where he carefully examined the drawer. It had been rigged with razor blades, triggered to split the tubes when forced opened. Whoever had orchestrated the feat had been careful to use fresh glue for maximum affect.
Only one person knew what that odor did to him, someone he’d told years ago. Merlin had welcomed him home in a manner he wouldn’t forget.
* * * *
Veronica didn’t remember being as exhausting as a child. Derrick was everywhere, racing from room to room, wanting to know this or that story, more curious than his father had ever been. Knowing Caith as she did, she wouldn’t have thought that possible, but the difference was rooted in their personalities. Caith had been quietly analytical as a child while Derrick was charged like a live wire.
She told him about sea serpents, ogres, and trolls. About playing by the lake and in the woods. About sitting up at night and sharing stories under the stars. Every word sent a stab of painful whimsy through her heart, but Derrick was all eagerness and grins, forcing her to shelve her melancholy. When she heard a car out front, she guessed Melanie had arrived with the boys instead of going straight home.
“Let’s go upstairs. I think your Aunt Melanie is here with Noah and Matt.”
Derrick raced ahead of her, outdistancing her on the staircase. She heard his feet thump across the floor, then stop suddenly. A split-second of silence followed before his voice tumbled down the stairs, raised in excitement. “Grandma! Grandpa!”
Veronica’s heart lurched to her throat. Imagining every horrible scene in the book, she darted up the staircase, around the corner, and came to a skidding halt in the Great Room. Caith was nowhere in sight.
“Veronica.” Morgana Breckwood stopped fussing over her grandson long enough to spare a glance, her face rosy with delight. She wore a pencil skirt with low-heeled boots and a drape-front cardigan, her short blond hair styled in a becoming bob. As always, the picture of casual elegance. “What are you doing here? How did Derry—” She broke off laughing as her husband swept Derrick up into his arms.
“So this is the voice on the phone?” Stuart Breckwood asked with a wide grin for Derry. An older image of Caith, Stuart was slightly taller and broader through the shoulders, but his eyes were the same winter blue. Gray peppered the black hair at his temples, lending a distinguished look befitting the owner of a prominent company.
“Grandpa.” Derrick measured the name with the man, grinning like he’d fallen into Christmas morning. “I can’t believe you’re here. Dad said you were in Canada.”
At the mention of Caith, something flitted through Stuart’s eyes too fast for Veronica to read.
“We decided to come home early.” Morgana leaned forward, kissing her grandson on the cheek. “We never expected to find you here.”
“I’m staying with Uncle Aren and going to school with Matt and Noah,” Derrick said proudly.
Morgana looked to Veronica for clarification.
Her face grew warm. Nervously, she hooked a strand of hair behind her ear. “It’s…it’s a long story.”
“It doesn’t matter.” Stuart grinned, as delighted as Veronica had ever seen him. “I don’t care what the reason is as long as I have the chance to see my grandson.” Cupping the back of Derrick’s head, he kissed the boy on the forehead. “Eight years old. Look at you! The spitting image of your father.”
“I suppose you think I’ve kept him from you all these years.”
Caith’s tightly controlled voice drew four gazes in his direction. Veronica let a small gasp slip as he walked into the room. Something was wrong. Something beyond this unexpected, nerve-wracking reunion. Had something happened while he was upstairs? His skin was gray, his features tight and strained. He carried a green ball cap which he slipped into his rear pocket by the bill.
Stuart set Derrick on the floor but made no move to speak. Sensing the sudden tension in the room, Morgana swept from the group and embraced her son. “Caith, why didn’t you tell us you were coming? It’s so good to see you.”
Caith gave her a fleeting smile. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her temple. “Missed you, Mom.”
Encouraged by his affection, Derrick darted to his side. “Dad, can we stay? Can we stay here?”
“We’re going back to the lodge.” He laid a hand on Derrick’s shoulder. “Go find your coat and shoes.”
Veronica saw the angry defiance the moment it hit Derrick’s eyes. “I don’t want to. I wanna stay here.” He folded his arms over his chest, sulky and angry.
Disaster. Veronica knew Caith had reached the end of a dangerously short rope. His temper had been on edge from the moment he’d learned about Derrick’s interaction with Merlin. Every event since had been kindling for the fire. Clenching his jaw, he crouched in front of Derrick and gripped the boy by both arms.
“I’m not in the mood for games, Derrick. If you think making a scene in front of your grandparents and Veronica is going to change how I’ll react, you’re wrong. Now go find your coat and shoes. I’m not going to tell you again.”
Veronica winced at the control in his voice, knowing a storm brewed underneath. Derrick’s bottom lip trembled. A bright sheen of tears appeared in his eyes, but to his credit, he blinked them back. Caith released him and he went wordlessly, if slowly, in search of his shoes.
Stuart glowered. “He could have stayed. You don’t have to.”
“You mean you don’t want me to.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Then you’d better roll out a fucking red carpet, because I don’t see any welcome sig
ns.”
“Caithelden!” Morgana’s voice cracked between father and son, stopping Stuart cold when he would have snarled a reply. Her eyes burned as she spun to confront her son. “I’ve missed you dearly, but that doesn’t give you the right to be rude. Clean up your language this instant and show some respect, or I’ll toss you out on your tail-end.”
Caith clenched his hands. “Don’t worry. I’m leaving.”
“Looks like I’m missing a party.” Aren came back into the room with Derrick. His emerging grin faltered at the ugly expressions that greeted him. He chuckled in a clear effort to lighten the mood. “Hey, I’m one of the good guys.”
Stuart glowered. “We’ll see about that tomorrow. Two o’clock.” He glanced from Aren to Caith. “I want you both at BI. Merlin and Galen, too. And you, Veronica.”
“I don’t work for you,” Caith snapped.
Stuart smiled thinly, as if enjoying the upper hand. “Oh, but you do. At least for now. I understand BI hired you, and like it or not, I’m still President of Breckwood Industries.” He stepped closer, as if measuring the man the eighteen-year-old had become. “I expect you there, Caith. For once in your life, do the right thing.”
Chapter 8
Veronica rode to the lodge with Caith and Derry. They stopped briefly at Aren’s to retrieve some of Derry’s clothes, along with his bag of marbles, then headed for Stone Willow. It was a tense drive with Derry occasionally muttering how unfair it was that he couldn’t stay with his grandparents. Caith ignored him, but by the third repetition of the protest, his composure snapped.
“Maybe we’ll go back to Boston and that’ll settle everything,” he said.
Derry immediately fell into moody silence. Veronica felt like a tight-rope walker doing a balancing act between the two. “Why do you think your parents came home early?” she asked Caith.
“Three guesses. In my book, they all start with the letter M.”
It took a moment to realize what he was insinuating. “You think Merlin called them?”