A Nomadic Witch (A Modern Witch Series: Book 4)

by Debora Geary

  “How can we help?” It was Moira, voice quavery, who broke the silence.

  “You can hold my baby girl.” Elorie touched the top of her daughter’s head, bald as a Nova Scotia beach boulder.

  Sophie fretted at the sidelining of their oldest witch—and then realized what Elorie really asked. The grandmother and daughter of her blood, together. An anchor, rooted in ancient women’s magic.

  The request brought a solidity to Aunt Moira’s aura that hadn’t been there for weeks. Mike squeezed her hand—he could see it too.

  Elorie turned next to Nell and Jamie, trio leaders for fire and air. “I need you to spellcode safeguards. Whatever this circle touches, I want it to stay in the circle.”

  Lots of nods—they’d have all the help they needed.

  “We have an idea.” Devin stuck his hand up from over in the corner, Lauren in his lap. “We’re thinking it might be a good idea to include this sexy wife of mine in the water trio.”

  Sophie blinked. Lauren was an impressive mind witch, but she didn’t have a stitch of water power.

  For the first time since the meeting started, Marcus leaned forward, eyes intent. “Why?”

  Devin shrugged. “When Jamie was up there last time, he used water and air to move, but he cast out with his mind. We’re thinking that if we can blend Lauren’s power into the water stream, and Elorie can shovel it all up to you, you’ll be able to reach out both together.”

  It broke every rule of circle magic. And every witch in the room was seriously considering the idea. Sophie felt Mike’s hand, linked in hers. “The bond between the two of you is strong—you’d know how to mesh energies by now.”

  Lauren’s spluttered laughter decreased the tension in the room several degrees.

  Sophie grinned. She hadn’t been thinking about that in particular, but it would help as well.

  “It must still be three.” Moira sounded firm on that point. “Can you manage the water trio without Lizzie?”

  “Yeah.” Devin sounded equally firm. “It’s bad enough we need to use Sierra.”

  “It’s not a death circle,” said Marcus dryly. “I’m glad you all seem so sure I’m coming back.”

  The unspeakable had finally been said.

  And it was the oldest witch in the room who answered.

  “Oh, you’re coming back.” Moira sounded like she was taking tea orders. “I’ve asked Morgan to fill a nappy at just the right time.”

  Sophie watched in awe as a man about to face the fear that had shadowed his whole life laughed until tears ran down his face.

  Over baby poop.

  ~ ~ ~

  It was always thus, far back in history. Men prepared for war—and women wept behind them.

  Moira leaned over her tea cup, willing it to hold her up. And willing the sense of dread in her heart to lessen just a little.

  It wasn’t war that called Marcus. It was truth.

  And fatherhood.

  She didn’t turn as the back door slid quietly open and strong arms wrapped around hers.

  She gripped Elorie’s hands, an old woman clinging to young life. “I can’t lose them both, darling girl. I just can’t.”

  “We won’t.” Her granddaughter’s eyes were fierce. “We know how to hold him now. And he knows how to come back.”

  It shamed her that she doubted. But the blood in her veins couldn’t forget. The mists had won far too often.

  Chapter 21

  Marcus stood on the rock promontory of Evan’s beach, the first rays of dawn teasing the sky in front of him. The mists were strong still—but the light was coming. A time carefully chosen.

  For him, it would be the time of seeking.

  Either there was a place, somewhere in the in-between, where his brother cast spells and reached his magic back out into the world.

  Or the mists were only pure, enveloping evil, as he’d believed all his life.

  He needed to know. If he had an ally in the mists, he had to find out.

  He could feel his circle behind him, standing strong in the pre-dawn light. Moira sat a half-mile away in her garden, Aaron and the twins with her. They’d all refused to leave Fisher’s Cove.

  They’d refused to leave Elorie.

  Adam was with Kenna and Morgan, barricaded in Realm and protected by an irrationally large contingent of guardian angels.

  Marcus was grateful for every last one of them.

  He cast one last look over Evan’s beach—and then turned to the circle at his back. Time to seek his brother’s soul.

  The traditional words of Devin calling water steadied the heart bashing around in his chest. He waited as the other elements joined the circle, a tight and competent flow of power woven by the strongest witches of his generation.

  The four points complete, Elorie held her arms to the sky, pendant clasped in her right hand.

  “I call the power that lives as mine

  A web unending, living vine

  That holds us all, woven as one,

  Dark and shadows, mists and sun.

  Touch the magic most like self

  Form a bridge, a flying shelf.

  Carry deep and carry back

  The soul joined to this magic’s track.

  Hold him thus to me and four times three,

  As I will, so mote it be.”

  He had a moment of surprise—it was a new call, and the imagery reached deep into his ribcage.

  And then she poured power his direction, and all he could do was grab the lightning strike. It blasted through him, water through a sieve, punching holes in his magical skin as it went. He was a flea riding a fire hose, all sense of direction lost in the tumult. Bloody hell—flying through space like a damn rocket, and no idea if he was even headed the right direction.

  We know which way east is, sent Lauren, humor not entirely masking the strain in her mental voice. When the rocket ride ends, have your snorkel and fins ready.

  He struggled to figure out what part of the torrent was actually his power—and then decided it didn’t matter. He gave over to the magic, reaching for the soul that was twin to his.

  And ran headlong into the freezing mists of hell.

  ~ ~ ~

  Marcus opened his eyes to a halo of light and a woman’s dulcet voice singing a strange kind of lullaby.

  Gods. If this was heaven, he’d taken a rather large wrong turn. He strained his brain to remember. A rocket ride, and then… nothing.

  “Awake now, are you?” A face bent down closer to his. “I think he’s conscious. You better come on over before he tries to pop me one.”

  Marcus was pretty sure Aunt Moira’s rules about not hitting girls extended to heaven. Or wherever he was.

  A young face swam into view. And this time, even in the shadow and light, he knew who it was. With all the longing of forty-three years, Marcus reached out to touch his brother.

  And discovered he couldn’t move at all.

  “Nimwit. Hang on a minute.” The boy with Evan’s face waved his hand a couple of times. “Sorry, I had to hit you with a stasis spell when you panicked in the mists.”

  He hadn’t panicked. He’d worked very, very hard not to panic.

  Gingerly, expecting to shatter into a thousand pieces at any moment, Marcus sat up. And then did the thing he’d waited an eternity to do.

  He grabbed his brother in a stranglehold of a hug and let the maelstrom he’d contained every day of those forty-three years go. Guilt and longing, love and rage, and the murderous need of a small boy who’d felt half his soul ripped away, all collided in the raging storm that had once been Marcus Buchanan.

  He had no idea how long he sat there holding Evan. He knew only that when he let go, the cells of his body all had new neighbors—and a lake of tears dried on the ground around them.

  If Evan’s face spoke true, the tears weren’t all his.

  For a while longer, Marcus just looked, drained of the feelings that had always been his skeleton. “Funny.” His voice sounded l
ike it hadn’t been used in a decade. And his nose was in desperate need of a hanky. “I spent so much of my life wishing for this moment. And not once did I think about what would happen next.”

  Evan rested his head on his knees, a simple movement that nearly drowned Marcus in memory again. “We have some time. And you have some questions.”

  The first leaked out of its own accord. “Why are you still here? In this place, whatever it is?” This place of gray and shadows and odd light.

  Evan stared off into the distance. “I take care of the souls who come here.”

  Marcus looked at the sunny small boy beside him in horror. “But you’re only a child.”

  Evan smiled, at once sad and amused. “That’s how you see me—how you remember me. Physical appearances are mutable here. They reflect the hearts of those who look, or sometimes, how we see ourselves.”

  Marcus blinked. “How do you see yourself?”

  Evan grinned, his eyes twinkling in that way they always had just before he got the both of them into a heap of trouble. “A blond-haired, blue-eyed version of you. We’re getting old, bro.”

  We. A single word that arrowed straight for the bottomless pit of lonely he carried in his chest—forty-three years of “I”—and lightened it. Just a little.

  A small hand joined with his.

  Marcus looked around, willing the shakes away, and sensed movement in the shadows. There had been someone with Evan when he’d awakened. Voices. “Who are the others?”

  “We’re kind of like a way station for departed souls. Some stay here only moments. Others, for months or years.”

  Marcus watched as a beautiful woman floated out of the shadows, her feet moving in an intricate and beautiful dance. Light shone from her face.

  “That’s Margie.” Evan smiled. “She got here after twenty years in a wheelchair and said she couldn’t wait for heaven to try on her dancing shoes.”

  Her joy was palpable. “When did she arrive?”

  “Just a few days ago. She’ll be leaving us soon.” A tinge of sadness leaked into his brother’s voice. “The happiest ones generally have the shortest stays.”

  Marcus didn’t want to ask what that meant about a man who’d stayed forty-three years.

  Two more of the shadows drew closer, the taller one singing the odd, tuneless lullaby Marcus remembered. Evan waved. “That’s Victoria and Davey. He’s our lost little waif. Vicki takes good care of him.”

  Marcus studied the sad little boy clutching a stuffed Kermit the Frog nearly as big as he was. “What’s wrong with him?”

  Evan shook his head. “We don’t know. He lost his magic crossing the mists—he’s a fire witchling, and fire can’t withstand the cold and wet of the journey here. He threw a three-day tantrum when he arrived and hasn’t said a word since. He just rocks and makes that high-pitched whining sound.”

  Marcus could hear the sound now—manic bees laced with a little nails-on-chalkboard. An hour of it would drive a man to drink. “How long has he been here?”

  “Seventeen years.”

  The insanity of it nearly struck Marcus dumb. “You’ve been listening to that for seventeen years?”

  “Nope.” Evan laughed and reached into his pocket for two odd yellow cylinders. “Earplugs.” He grinned. “And Vicki’s really, really hard of hearing.”

  Thank the gods for small mercies.

  “Come on.” Evan hopped to his feet. “Let’s take a walk.”

  Marcus rose more slowly, surveying the unending gray. “Does it ever look any different than this?”

  “No.”

  It was a single word—but the longing that rose up in his brother’s soul nearly knocked Marcus flat. Evan had lived here forty-three years—and home was still a beach in Nova Scotia.

  “Why?” The word was ripped from Marcus’s throat. “Why did you leave?”

  “I don’t know.” His brother stopped, eyes infinitely sad. “I can’t ever remember. I only know that one day I was here, and I couldn’t go home.”

  Horror iced Marcus’s veins. He slid down to the ground, reaching for a small boy to hold.

  “Please.” Evan squirmed out of reach, a plea in his eyes. “Don’t think about that—it will drain the magic keeping you here.”

  He couldn’t leave yet—too many questions unanswered. Marcus gulped air and tried to push away the heartrending image of a lost little boy alone in this unending abyss.

  “It’s gotten better,” said Evan softly. “The last year has been a great gift. I’ve been able to come visit a little.”

  Because of Net power. “The ghost in Realm.” And the mysterious alarms. Not danger. Evan. More of Kevin’s data points.

  “Yeah.” Blue eyes twinkled. “The babies were always happy to see me. You, not so much.”

  Pain seized Marcus’s heart again. “You came to see me?”

  “Not often.” Sorrow weighted Evan’s entire body. “The mists were never strong enough. I could hear you calling.” He paused, gulping painfully. “I don’t think you could hear me answer.”

  Never. Not once.

  Evan punched him in the arm. “And then Net power happened and I could finally come and all you would freaking think about was turnips and kissing and how I was this stupid voice from your mind’s filing cabinet.”

  Gods. “I’m sorry.” The words rasped out over a throat dry as dust.

  His brother reached into a small sack and pulled out a bottle. “Here. Water.” His eyes twinkled again. “The one thing we have plenty of around here.”

  Marcus drank and looked at the small boy who was his twin. And needed to say the words deep in his heart. “To be able to still laugh here—” he rasped in a breath, determined to get the rest out, “is an act of courage beyond measure.”

  “It’s why I liked to visit the babies.” Evan looked down at the ground, chin wobbling with unshed tears. “Some days I was running out.”

  Marcus regretted every day in forty-three years that he hadn’t sent laughter out into the universe. He would never make that mistake again.

  “Morgan’s giggles are magic,” said his brother softly. “For both of us.”

  Morgan. The reason he was here. “How did you do it? How did you get into Realm?” Where Evan could go, maybe the mists could follow.

  “Net power rocks.” Evan’s grin was back. “When I go to the edge of the mists, I can see it.”

  “They connect?” The thought scared Marcus silly.

  “No.” His brother seemed very sure. “It’s like a bridge that’s missing the middle. But it gives me something to aim at.”

  This was beginning to sound like one of the dumber pirate stunts they’d pulled as boys. “Just exactly how are you getting across?”

  “I jump.” Evan took a swig of water. “Missed a couple of times, but I have it pretty much figured out now.”

  A couple of stray dots connected in Marcus’s head. “Wait. You said that fire witches lose their magic in the mists. What are you using to power all this?”

  “The mists,” said Evan, holding out his palms, a small energy flow moving between them. “The same way astral travelers are powered. I channel it much like fire power. It weaves and folds and wraps into spells—not happily, but it can be done.” He put his chin back on his knees. “I’ve had a lot of time to practice.”

  A spellcaster in the mists. “It’s how you sent Adele. And Morgan.”

  Humor flooded into his brother’s eyes. “Adele was easy. Realm’s this huge, gleaming fortress of Net power, and that fetching spell of Nell’s is very handy.” He grimaced. “Your front porch was harder.”

  Marcus had a hundred questions, but he could feel power lines tugging him now. They didn’t have a lot more time. “Tell me about Morgan.”

  “She’s the daughter of the only traveler I couldn’t send home.” Evan’s mind drenched in guilt. “I think giving birth triggered emergence of her magic, and it was stronger than anything I’ve ever seen. Twice I managed to send her back, bu
t the third time she came, Morgan was with her.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “Her soul’s tether had already snapped.”

  Marcus could read the rest. “She left the baby with you.”

  “I couldn’t keep her. This is no place for a baby.” Evan looked up, eyes hollow with grief. “Tell Morgan her mama’s name was Emma, and she loved her very much.”

  The power tug was much stronger now. “How do I keep her safe?”

  Evan shook his head. “I don’t know.” His grin was achingly lopsided. “But I know you’re the smartest brother I’ve got.”

  Marcus grabbed his brother in a bear hug. “I’ll come back.”

  “No.” Evan held tight. “You can’t—it’s too dangerous. I won’t always be here to catch you.”

  Protest died as Marcus realized how much magic was working to keep him safe.

  Two small hands cupped his face—but the eyes belonged to a man who had lived centuries. “Do the one thing I can’t.” Evan’s face crumpled. “Go home. Live.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Lauren clung to her husband. Marcus’s sadness was awful. Evan’s was worse.

  She no longer tried to block it. Every word, every stitch of laughter and anger and grief—all telegraphed down the mighty rope of power and love that anchored Marcus into the world of the living.

  Shutting it off might have weakened the rope—so she’d done her job and let what was happening in the mists rip her to shreds.

  He was coming back to them now. She could feel the rope folding in on itself, filaments stretched to their limits settling back into less-abused forms.

  Marcus was horribly, desperately sad—but some important part of him was no longer dead.

  And then minds far stronger than hers were throwing up walls, and it all went blessedly silent.

  ~ ~ ~

  Sophie practically crawled into the hot pool, wondering how she’d ever lived without one.

  “You’ve exhausted yourself, lovey.” Moira held out a hand. “Come. I’ve a wee bit of healing left in me. Let me clear your channels, at least.”

  It was a very sweet offer from a witch who had done yeoman’s work already. “Mike took care of that much. I could use some of that tea, though.” It smelled vaguely like skunk, which meant it was one of Moira’s stiffer brews.