by Abigail Owen
Rowan gave him a soft smile but said nothing. A good listener, his new nanny.
“We married a year after that, and she was pregnant a few months later. During that time, we were assigned a case where a warlock was using magic for various illegal ends—theft mostly, some cases of assault, and he was escalating.”
Now the hard part.
“What we didn’t know was he was tracking us. The night Maddie went into labor, he showed up at the house, almost as though he were a Seer and knew the time had come, although, as far as I know, he didn’t have that ability.”
Greyson could still see every moment of that night if he closed his eyes. “He chose the right time to strike, with Maddie distracted by her pain.”
A glance down revealed he’d unconsciously fisted his hands, his knuckles white. With a deep breath, he forced his hands to unclench.
“He attacked us in the field as I was taking her teleport to the hospital. I defended her, of course, and eventually got both of us away. But a stray spell had struck her as we fought.”
He looked up to find her watching him with sorrow and pain in her gaze, eyes he could drown in. “And she died in childbirth?” she guessed?
Greyson jerked his head in a nod. “Her heart gave out in the end.”
Again, Rowan reached across to take his hand. “I’m so sorry, Grey.”
He squeezed back in a silent thank you.
“What happened to the warlock?”
“He disappeared. Officially, they assigned the case to a different Enforcer. Said I was too emotionally involved.”
“He was never found?”
Grey straightened in his seat. “Not for years. But then, last year, he showed up, again using magic to harm others. The Council gave orders to bring him in.”
She must’ve read the hard satisfaction in his expression, because she let go of his hand. “You killed him?”
“I did.” He searched her face for any sign of her thoughts—revulsion, understanding, anything. But she looked down, hiding her gaze from him.
“I think you tell the girls that.”
Rowan stood and circled the counter, lifting her pot off the stove.
Feeling suddenly untethered, as if he were a balloon she’d released to float away into the sky, Greyson stood. “All of it? You think they’re ready?”
“I think they’re old enough to understand how she died. I think they also need to know that the man who did it will never hurt them or their family again.”
She was right.
He watched her fiddling with the sauce for a long moment but couldn’t just walk out. Instead, he moved to stand beside her.
“Thank you.”
She flicked a glance his way. “Any time. Now I’d better get this done.”
Still oddly reluctant to leave, Greyson forced himself to nod and walk away.
“Grey—”
He turned back at her call.
“I’m glad you killed him.”
CHAPTER 8
Greyson sat in the circular room where the Mage High Council met weekly and did his best to focus his mind on the discussion. But, time and again, he found his gaze drawn to the floor-to-ceiling windows and the view beyond.
Situated on the Western slopes of the Sierra Nevada, the covens had chosen to erect a modern monstrosity, as different from his woodsy cabin as a demon from an angel. Constructed from cement, steel, and glass, the structure reminded him of an alien spacecraft. However, it did afford incredible views over the tops of the trees to the towering peak of Half Dome in Yosemite.
At the moment, Alasdair—the most recent head of the Council and Greyson’s mentor and friend—droned on about the finances. Each individual coven supported itself independently but also contributed to the Council a witch tax, which was used for mage-wide business. All business was transacted in gold, of course. While they lived in the wider world, they did their best not to be influenced by it or irrevocably tied to it. Alasdair’s report about the gold in their coffers and that in circulation didn’t interest Greyson in the least. Not his department, other than the fact that his paycheck drew from that source.
Consequently, he allowed his mind to wander to a red-headed witch whose spunky vulnerability had him thinking things he shouldn’t. That damn kiss was stuck in his mind. That and what she’d said about the warlock. I’m glad you killed him. How had she known he needed to hear that? Needed to know she wasn’t appalled by his actions?
And her advice had been spot on. The girls had cried as he told the about their mother, but all three had felt better knowing their mother’s killer would no longer hurt them or anyone else.
He’d tried to thank her, but she’d waved it off. “You already knew what to say,” she said. “You just needed to hear it out loud first.”
He’d call her a witch if he didn’t already know she was one. He’d also suspect magical coercion, but the chemistry between them was not remotely forced. Witches had tried to spell him before, force his affection or even just sex. A subtle difference existed between his body willfully engaging and not—a twitch to his muscles that felt off when not of his own volition. That sensation didn’t appear with Rowan. If anything, every part of him strained to be closer.
Greyson shifted in his seat as his body responded to his mental image of her, stubborn chin tilted, red curls in wild disarray, grey eyes issuing both warning and appeal. That husky voice calling him Grey. No one had ever shortened his name like that, and he had to admit he liked it on her lips.
Fuck. He was losing it.
Rowan McAuliffe, in a few short weeks, had managed to capture his attention as no other woman ever had. The problem was, she had his attention as a man, but also as a father…and as a witch hunter. None of those aspects seemed compatible with the others.
He recognized in Rowan the ability to not only deal with his children, but to bond with them. The girls already showed signs of liking her. This morning they’d even thanked her for cooking breakfast. No other nanny had merited such manners without the girls being strong-armed into it. Rowan had fitted into their routine as if made for their family. Greyson actually slept at night these days.
Engaging in any romantic or sexual activities with his nanny was a bad idea just about every way he looked at it, but being attracted to her when her behavior should have him concerned—way worse.
When he’d come up from behind her in the woods, she’d ignited energy balls in her hands without a word uttered, a difficult task for many mages. What really caught his attention, though, was how she’d reabsorbed the energy when he’d revealed his identity. Greyson didn’t know a single witch or warlock with that ability. Energy, once directed into a spell, had to be released.
Which begged the question, why was she working as a nanny? A witch with that skill alone would be useful to the Council.
A tap on his tablet brought up her paperwork, which he’d pulled early this morning before teleporting to this meeting. He’d reviewed it, of course, when Delilah had sent over Rowan’s info as a potential nanny. Nothing then had caught his attention, and nothing now did either.
He scanned the facts sheet: Rowan Deirdre McAuliffe. Twenty-seven. Born to a low-level couple with limited magic who died in a car accident when Rowan was eight. Adopted by a witch named Tanya McAuliffe and raised in Dunbar, on the west coast of Scotland, relatively close to Edinburgh, the coven of which she’d been a member since moving to the area. After a series of unimpressive scores in her witchcraft studies, the Edinburgh Coven determined Rowan to be a witch of minimal skill and she’d worked a series of relatively low-magic jobs since. The latest being as a nanny.
A perfectly normal background, which had the hunter in him concerned. Given the skill she showed in the forest, her history came across as too bland, off in some way. He just couldn’t put a finger on what, exactly. However, after years of investigating and hunting down witches, he’d developed a sixth sense for when things didn’t add up. Rowan McAuliffe didn’t add up.
He lifted his gaze from his phone to find Alasdair staring at him, thick black eyebrows raised in question. Apparently, he’d missed a question directed his way.
Greyson placed his phone face down on the table. “Sorry, Alasdair. Reviewing some new info. What was the question?”
“How is the hunt for the witch involved in that werewolf fight going?”
Lips tight, Grey leaned forward in his seat. “No progress.”
A flash of irritation crossed Alasdair’s otherwise passive face. Grey doubted anyone else caught it, but he’d known Alasdair for years.
“What’s the hold up?” Alasdair asked.
“Beyond a physical description—red hair, heart shaped face, green or possibly grey eyes—I have nothing else to work with.”
“That describes about half the witches in existence.” Hestia, Alasdair’s sister who sat to the man’s right, leaned forward to speak.
Greyson nodded. “Yes. Approximately five-hundred-thousand witches in the covens meet that description.”
“Have the werewolves stated why they didn’t take her into custody?” Hestia asked.
“They claim they did and gave her to the demigod Castor Dioskouri, a son of Zeus, apparently. His nymph, Lyleia, now his wife, was Kaios’s target in the first place.”
Alasdair waved that statement away, as always uninterested in the affairs of any non-mages. “And this Dioskouri, what’d he do with her?”
“He claims he never had her. However, so far, I’ve had trouble contacting them. They’ve been avoiding my phone calls.” Not a single call returned in weeks now. Why? Were they avoiding him? “On the way home from this meeting, I plan to stop by Dioskouri’s offices and try to force the issue.”
Alasdair gave a sharp nod. “Good. Employ a truth-tellers spell. I don’t like that the werewolves allowed her to escape. Given their vengeful natures, they’re probably hunting her themselves.”
Greyson dipped his head in acknowledgment, even as he gave a mental grimace.
A truth-teller’s spell took tremendous amounts of energy. More, he suspected, to apply it to a demigod, if that could be done at all. Alasdair knew this, which meant he knew using the spell would leave Greyson weak and unable to defend himself should things go south.
To risk his best Enforcer, Alasdair must really want this particular witch.
As the meeting broke up, Greyson gathered his things into his father’s old leather attaché case, and strode out the double doors. He needed to get outside to teleport. First, though, he needed to make a call.
He fished his phone out of his pocket and searched for a contact.
Delilah.
He hit the button to call and waited for her to pick up.
“This is Delilah.”
“Greyson Masters here.”
“What can I do for you? How’s Rowan?”
Greyson nodded to a few fellow Council members who walked passed where he stood just inside the glass doors of the building and waited for them to get further away. “Actually, I had a few questions about Rowan, if you have a moment.”
A short pause greeted his request. “Is she working out okay?”
How did he answer? “So far she’s been excellent. A natural with the girls.”
“I’m glad you’re pleased,” came the smooth rejoinder.
“I am.”
“So, what questions do you have?”
“I know you do thorough checks of all employees you staff out.”
“Yes.”
“Rowan’s background indicates she’s a witch with minimal powers. However, the other night she was able to manifest energy balls as a defense.”
“She threw energy balls at you?”
While her tone didn’t exactly change, he could picture Delilah, with her exotically slanted dark eyes and long ebony hair no doubt perfectly coifed, sitting forward in her seat. He’d got her attention with that, which meant she didn’t know.
“She didn’t throw them once she realized it was me. I take it by your reaction, you weren’t aware of this ability.”
“Well, someone should throw an energy ball at your stubborn head someday.” Now lazy amusement laced her voice.
Greyson frowned. Was she avoiding the question?
“Yes, I was aware of this ability,” Delilah continued, shutting down his suspicion.
“Then why not list it in the information. For that matter, why is she a nanny with a power like that?”
“Rowan can’t control the power. It’s a reflex that started when her parents were killed. She was in the car with them, as you know, since you read her bio. As defense mechanism, it rarely manifests. You must’ve scared her badly. What were you doing?”
Now Greyson didn’t want to answer the question.
“I frightened her when we bumped into each other in the middle of the night.”
“I see.”
Now why did he get the uneasy feeling she knew exactly what they’d been up to that night—not just the girls, but that explosive kiss?
“Well, I hope I’ve adequately addressed your question. I’m surprised you didn’t just ask her.”
Greyson stood up straight, not enjoying the mild rebuke. “I will next time.”
“Good. Though feel free to check with me any time.”
“Thanks.” After their goodbyes, Grey hung up and slowly tucked his phone back in his pocket. His conversation with Delilah made total logical sense, but something was still bugging the tar of him. It was time to get to know his nanny better.
With his missing witch case essentially on hold while he waited for both the upcoming meeting as well as a few other feelers to return results, he had some time on his hands, time which he intended to use observing Rowan.
To make sure she was safe to leave with his daughters, of course.
This urge to get back home quickly had nothing to do with his body’s reaction to her, which started the moment he laid eyes on her.
First, though, a stop off in Austin, Texas to talk to a demigod and a nymph.
CHAPTER 9
Rowan observed the girls’ lesson with their Aunt Persephone in total silence. This was the first time she’d come along, because Greyson had to go into Denver for work on Monday and wouldn’t be able to take the girls. Since it was Friday, he’d wanted to introduce her to the girls’ aunt, his sister-in-law, ahead of time. Persephone lived “next door,” which meant in the Rocky Mountains, but on the other side of the divide. If they drove, the trip would take over an hour. Hooray for teleporting.
A few snuck glances in Grey’s direction—granted he had his laptop going the entire time—showed he found nothing amiss with the lesson. Was this really how most witches were schooled?
As soon as they arrived at a cabin not unlike Greyson’s with dark brown log siding and natural stone accents, a woman came out on her front porch. Rowan pegged her age around thirty, tall and elegant, with dark hair pulled back in an elegant ponytail and wearing three-inch stilettos. In the mountains. In the snow.
Meanwhile, Rowan suddenly felt a dowdy frump beside her with her red curls a wild halo about her face, and her jeans, black blouse, and black boots way too casual. After the burnt lasagna and hiding incident, she hadn’t bothered to upgrade her wardrobe all that much, opting for blouses instead of t-shirts. Grey hadn’t said anything, but now she questioned her decision. Maybe she’d go shopping again on Sunday when she had her day off.
Only she’d stopped that thinking in its tracks. No way was she changing who she was just to compete with this woman. For what?
The introductions went fine, Persephone asking her to call her by her first name and welcoming her to the area. Then, as the girls tromped inside and they followed, the tone changed subtly. “I do ask that you don’t interrupt the lesson.” Persephone turned to Greyson, “Remember the last nanny who insisted on helping?” She gave a delicate chuckle.
Grey smiled but didn’t comment.
“I wouldn’t dre
am of interfering,” Rowan assured her. Really. She wouldn’t. Not having grown up among witches, she hadn’t a clue about how they learned their magic.
“Good. Several of your predecessors have been inclined to offer suggestions. I’ll tell you what I told them. I’ve been licensed to instruct for ten years now, and I teach the six and seven-year-olds at the Denver Coven’s gifted academy. I certainly don’t need advice from a...” She paused and gave Rowan a cool once-over. “I’m sure you understand.”
Amazing how a reasonable request could be altered by a tone, which spoke volumes. Basically, Persephone had just called her an inept magical user who could never compare to a licensed teacher. Did Grey catch it? A quick check of his expression told her no.
He knew Persephone better than she. Perhaps the other woman hadn’t meant it that way.
Rowan schooled her expression to be pleasant. “I’ll just observe quietly from the corner. Perhaps I’ll even learn something new.”
Persephone’s smile came across full-on condescending. “Just don’t try anything without help.”
Wow. Okay. The woman meant to be a bitch. In that short span of conversation, Rowan pegged Persephone as a self-important snob with—if her simpering attitude toward Grey gave any clue—designs on nabbing the widower brother-in-law for herself. Meantime, he, like every other man on the planet, failed to notice the female cattiness happening under his nose, taking the comments at face value.
Persephone’s message came across loud and clear: I’m the better witch and hands off. Were all traditionally trained witches this competitive? “Of course,” Rowan murmured and tried not to make childish faces behind Persephone’s back.
Now, sitting in a literal corner so she wouldn’t be “in the way,” Rowan couldn’t decide which was more difficult—hiding her growing dislike for Persephone, hiding her incredulity at the rudimentary lesson taking place given what she’d seen the girls do at home, or hiding her amusement at the girls’ obvious boredom with the exercise. Persephone had them growing flowers, but in fast forward, like watching a time-lapse video—a trick Rowan had learned at the age of five.