None of the men spoke. Franz never removed his attention from Bernie, but Bernie refused to look at his brother, so angry he didn’t know what stupid thing he might say. Usually unrestrained in expressing his thoughts and feelings, this time he knew he could only make things worse for himself.
Seconds before shutting and locking the door, Franz threw in a maroon canvas duffel bag. Bernie waited until they were out of sight and their muffled footsteps had faded away up the basement stairs before opening it. He hefted it onto the bed and unzipped it. Inside were clothing and his favorite crime thrillers and mystery novels. Bernie bit his lip in anger. Franz had used his key and entered Bernie’s house. He supposed he could hardly ask for it back now. Perhaps he would change the locks when this was all over, whenever that may be. He counted the novels. Ten of them. Franz intended for Bernie’s incarceration to last days if not weeks.
The bed creaked as he sank onto the rough blankets, his hands clasped between his knees. He inhaled, the room now smelling of pine cleaner. Bernie could live with that, he supposed. His business could run itself for a few days. Franz would call Bernie’s accountant, a Baumann clan shifter, with some excuse. He had been working on a project in porcelain, a set of delicate teacups. Working with clay always calmed him, sending him to his creative space where the rest of the world receded, and his problems became dim echoes in his mind. He ached to feel slippery, wet clay between his fingers.
Bernie loved his brother, but had been disappointed with him before. Now, anger welled up like a fountain, anger he hadn’t realized he’d been harboring all these years. Franz would never recognize Bernie had changed and grown over the past few centuries. Although still impulsive, still socially awkward in a way that endeared him to most people, and still reckless at times, Bernie had complete control of his bear in all but the most extreme stressful situations. This was true of any shifter. Shifter aggression could take any of them, even Franz, and they all fought the urge to allow the beast to rise when sad or depressed.
Most of all, Bernie grieved for something he could not name. Centuries ago, Franz had always imprisoned Bernie when he most needed external control, when the bear tried to take over. He did it out of love and concern. This time it felt like...revenge. Franz locked up Bernie out of anger this time. With this realization he recognized what he had lost—respect for the brother he’d idolized since childhood. His anger drained away into grief. Bereft, he crossed his arms over his chest and tucked his hands under them, his habitual pose when dark moods struck him. He rocked a little. Although he knew it would convince Franz he had truly lost control, Bernie allowed the beast to rise. It was his choice, not the bear’s. He removed his clothing, shifted into his massive bear, and curled up on the floor, seeking the comfort and simplicity of bear dreams.
During the next few weeks, Franz or Johann came daily with meals, to clean the commode, or to take away and then return Bernie’s laundry. More crime novels appeared, along with the book of poetry from his bedside table. No clay. Even children’s modeling clay would do. He asked for it, and some arrived two days later. Bernie sculpted animals—kittens playing with balls of yarn, deer with long slender legs, standing bears, dogs resting with their heads upon their paws, and many more—taking them apart daily and reforming the clay into something new.
Ian Drummond appeared after two weeks, standing in the corridor, hands in his pockets and leaning against the wall as if he had not a care in the world. But the tightness along his jaw gave him away. Either he was angry at what Franz had done, or nervous about being caught in the basement. Hard to tell which.
Bernie was so happy to see a friendly face, tears sprang to his eyes. But he suspected Ian worked for the Baumanns. In fact, he was certain of it. So when Ian offered to return with anything Bernie might need, he forced himself to say no. “You don’t want to expose yourself,” he said, guaranteeing Drummond would know he’d caught on to him. Drummond stared, expressionless, for a few moments, then wished Bernie well and left.
Mostly, Bernie thought. Crissy entered his mind again and again, reminding him of why he’d defied his brother in such an extreme and thorough way. She deserved better than a lifetime of yearning for a lost mate, which could easily happen with the way Franz seemed determined to heat up the feud into full warfare. Good people would die. Franz had lost Sabine in Kansas, and it fueled his hatred rather than giving him a motive to end the madness. And it must end. Even after this realization, Bernie took several more days to reach a conclusion: he was the one who had the means to end the feud. He couldn’t change Franz, but he could undermine him.
When, for the twenty-eighth time, Franz approached the cell and asked Bernie if he regretted what he’d done, Bernie spoke the words Franz wished to hear. Johann loomed in the corridor. An old shifter from the original clan in Germany, Johann would understand anything said in Medieval German. Bernie didn’t want Johann to hear, so he resorted to the secret twin language they had created when they were boys, praying Franz still remembered it.
“I’m sorry, Franz. It was wrong. I fell in love with Crissy, and I don’t know what came over me.”
Franz’s eyes widened, but after a moment he nodded slowly. He understood. His hand came forward, the key turned in the lock with a satisfying click, and he set Bernie free.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
A month after binding her hawk, Crissy found Neal in his office, opening pieces of mail and frowning at each one.
“Luke said you don’t like paperwork.”
She shut the door behind her and Neal raised his brows. He dropped his letter opener and leaned forward, gesturing to a chair. “No, I don’t.”
She sat and didn’t speak for a moment. She jiggled her knee in a fit of nerves.
“Is there something I can do for you?” Neal asked.
She swallowed and forced the words out. “Do you have Bernie Schmitt’s phone number?”
“I thought you might want to contact him.”
“Do you actually know everything?”
He picked up the letter opener, toying with it. “I might try to give that impression. But really, you want to apologize.”
“Mostly, I want to thank him.”
“For what? Keeping you prisoner for a month?”
“Luke didn’t tell you?”
“He hasn’t said anything.”
She settled back into the chair with an angry huff. “He thinks I’m mistaken. He can’t let go.”
“What did he do? Bernie, I mean.”
“I’m sitting here having a human conversation, because Bernie Schmitt spent hours, every single day, talking to me, and saying my name, and coaxing me to come back.”
The hawk sensed her agitation and struggled to surface against the binding. She closed her eyes and used a relaxation technique Valerie taught her, and the bird backed down.
Neal waited patiently for what must have been several minutes. When she opened her eyes, he reached for his Rolodex and thumbed through it. “I don’t have his cell.” He smirked. “But I’m working on it. I do have his home number.”
He thought for a second. “I also have one for his office. It might be better to use that, because Franz never goes there.” He wrote on a sticky note and leaned across the desk to hand it to her.
She took the paper, saying, “Franz... Neal, you should be careful about him.”
“Did you hear anything useful?”
“A lot of it is fuzzy. I did hear an argument between Bernie and Franz. Bernie accused Franz of using him as a smokescreen. That the one who really caused all the wars was him. I wasn’t sure what it meant, but I do think the one who really means you harm is Franz.”
He leaned back and folded his arms. “I’m aware of that.”
“Then why do you let them say the things they do about Bernie?”
“Because Bernie may be Franz’s tool, but he’s always done what his brother’s told him to.”
“Not this time.”
“How?”
&n
bsp; “He set me free when Franz threatened to keep me in a cage forever. Luke didn’t tell you?”
He frowned. “No, but I think it might be hard for him to accept. Crissy, Bernie didn’t just kill Eva in a raid. She was a non-combatant. He went to her home and murdered her.”
“And he is truly sorry. I do remember that much. It was awful and wrong, but it’s been over five hundred years.” She inhaled. “And Luke killed his mate in a vengeful raid.”
“We were in a war.”
“You were busy playing eye for an eye.”
“You weren’t there. You didn’t live through it. And you have very little right to question our actions.”
For a second, when the steel shone through those remarkable baby blues, she saw why Neal led Clan Baumann. She backed down a little, though not completely. “Whatever you might think, I believe Bernie’s changed.” She stood. “Thank you for the phone number.”
As she approached his door, he said, “Crissy.”
She turned.
“I never apologized.”
“For what?”
“I’m the one who urged Luke to turn you.”
“I know. I was there.”
“I didn’t think you remembered. You’ve never said anything.”
She turned the knob and opened the door. “I already forgave you, Neal. We all do things we regret in the heat of the moment.”
With the number in hand, Luke remained the last hurdle to jump. She pulled out her phone during lunch, with Connie there, as well as Luke. Better to ask forgiveness than permission.
“Excuse me while I make a call.”
“Can’t it wait?” Luke asked.
“Nope. Must be done now.”
The phone rang twice before he picked up. “Hello, Bernie Schmitt here.”
With enhanced hearing, they all could hear both sides of the conversation. Forks clattered, Connie spluttered, and Luke started to speak, but she held out a hand.
“It’s Crissy Grady.”
She heard the creak of a chair and a door slam, background noise suddenly dampened.
“Crissy, you shifted back. I’m so glad to hear it.”
“I thought you would want to know.” She cleared her throat, emotions crowding to the surface. Luke picked up a fork and bent it in half. “I wanted to thank you for everything you did.”
“It was important to me that you remain whole.”
Luke scoffed.
“I know.” After an awkward silence, she said, “I had them bind my beast.”
“A good choice for now. Someday you’ll be able to set it free.”
“Enough,” Luke said loudly.
Bernie Schmitt chuckled. He said, “Take care, little bird,” and hung up his phone.
“It’ll be easier to fix the magic than it was to cast it the first time,” Valerie was saying, but Crissy’s eyes were on the sky. They were in the center of the pasture, Valerie, Crissy, and Neal, sitting cross-legged on a blanket with a tarp beneath it to protect them from the wet grass. High above them, the air was icy and brisk. As the hawk, she had streaked from the sky to catch prey. Warm thermals had lifted her skyward. And her thoughts had been hazy and peaceful. Crissy had never panicked over her inability to shift, mostly content to drift. Her longing for Luke had kept her in the moment. That and the deep sound of Bernie’s voice. Crissy frowned, the memories turning bittersweet. She would always owe Bernie Schmitt. If only she could get through to Luke about it.
“Crissy,” Valerie said a little sharply.
“Sorry. I’m here. I promise.”
“We’ll take it slow,” Neal said, giving Crissy’s knee a pat.
Valerie slender dark brows arched for a second, but she held out both her hands for them to take. “We normally have the witch and the clan chief, however it can be done with three people. No more, though. Each of the witches involved should have contact with the clan chief in order to access the border magic.”
With Valerie’s instruction over the past few weeks, she’d become even more sensitive to the currents of magic and the spells surrounding her. Neal’s beast was particularly strong, it’s image clearer than those of other shifters. The clan magic radiated from him in a crystal light that reached for all the other shifter souls in his clan. Layered within it was the faint blue light of a more ordinary spell—the border magic, which was what they would work on today.
“I can already feel and see his clan magic,” she said.
Valerie’s lips parted, and she exchanged a glance with Neal. “Are you sure? You’re not even in a trance.”
“I’ve always seen it. Can’t you?” She waved her hand through the white light. “It’s right there.”
“Yes,” Valerie said slowly. “But it takes a bit of concentration. You’ve found a treasure, Neal. This may be one of the greatest witches of the era.”
Neal smiled at her, and she shrugged, a little embarrassed. “I have to admit, it got easier to see after I turned.”
“What about the border magic spell? Can you see that?” Valerie asked.
“Yeah. It looks like an ordinary spell. Blue. How long will this take? It’s cold out here.”
“Don’t worry. We’ll do it in stages over the next few days.”
“Let’s work on the eastern border with the Schmitts first,” Neal said. “It’s the most worrisome.”
After forming a circle with their joined hands, Valerie instructed Crissy to close her eyes. “Can you feel the different strands of spells and magic around you?”
Searching out with her mind, as Valerie had taught her to do, Crissy first felt the intense current of wild, natural magic flowing through her body. She attracted it to her, Valerie had said, something powerful witches did without thought. But thought was required to separate the natural magic from the pulsing strands that had been shaped into something useful. The Baumann clan magic streaming from Neal was like a soothing balm, welcoming and warm. It was a part of Neal, and Neal was a part of it.
The border magic, on the other hand, streamed toward Neal. He was its anchor.
“The border magic is weak and faded compared to other spells I’ve seen,” Crissy said.
“Yes. I put it on Neal…oh, it must be over seventy-five years ago now.”
“What would happen if you died?” Neal asked.
“It would fade away in time, like it’s doing now. Another witch could renew it. It would be different, work a little differently. Since so many spells are based upon the mind and intent of the witch, they’re all different, even if they’re trying to accomplish the same thing.”
“So we’re making it different now by adding Crissy’s input?” Neal asked.
“Yes. Now let’s get started. My butt is already freezing.”
Crissy laughed. Valerie was open and direct like her mother.
“Focus on how shifter magic feels,” Valerie reminded her. “Build that into your spell. A shifter crossing the barrier will trigger the magic, and Neal will feel it.”
“Someone just did,” she whispered, her voice feeling a mile away from her mind as she concentrated. “A few minutes ago. From the east.”
Valerie’s hand jerked but held fast. “You could feel it? Is she right, Neal?”
“Yep.”
“It’s because I’m touching him, I’m sure,” Crissy said.
She didn’t have the hours and hours of magic practice Valerie had. They had planned to work for two hours; in half that time, Crissy opened her eyes, unable to focus any longer. Still, content to watch the clouds drift through the sky, she sat quietly, her back aching and her backside half frozen. She lifted her face to the late-afternoon sun. A cold breeze snapped through the trees behind the house, stinging her nose and cheeks. An endless vault of blue lay overhead. The hawk stirred but was content to watch.
Valerie continued to work for an additional twenty minutes. If Neal felt any discomfort, he gave no sign.
At last, Valerie released their hands, opening her eyes. She placed her han
d on her lower back and massaged it. “Ugh. We have a witch at the coven who is about three hundred years old, and she can do this for hours and then jump up and walk away as if nothing was stiff or sore.”
They all rose to their feet and headed for the farmhouse. Luke was there at the back door to greet them.
“You have to go into the bar today, Crissy. Bobby needs help.”
She had yet to return to work. She berated herself daily for being afraid, but then stood at the window watching the sky. Sometimes Luke stood with her and put his arm around her waist. He rarely said anything about her fears.
“You must make a beginning, Liebling.” He kissed her temple, making a warm, pleasant rush spread from there to throughout the rest of her body. She rested her head against his shoulder. “I’ll be with you all day. Let’s go.”
She opened her mouth, but words failed her. Even bound, the hawk spoke to her in images and feelings, and sometimes she forgot the rest of the world didn’t. Luke sensed this, and began to talk for the both of them, asking questions she could answer with a simple nod or shake of her head.
“Do you think you’re ready?”
Shake.
“I’m telling you, you are. What’s more, Bobby has been covering the bar for almost two months. He’s cranky. He needs you.”
She pulled herself upright. Words returned. “Okay,” she said with a tremulous smile. “I’m sorry. I’ve always been stronger than this.”
“You are.” His brilliant smile, the creases at the corners of his mouth, were her instant reward. “I’ve only seen someone come back from being lost twice before. They each took months before they could even use a spoon. You’re doing great.”
“True?”
“True.”
“I love you.” That was true, the truest thing she ever said.
“I love you.” He hugged her to him, and kissed her lips so passionately, she thought maybe they should stay home.
She wanted to ask him if he loved her because she was his mate, or if he loved the woman she was, but when she saw his blue, blue eyes, the purest love shone through them. Who cares?
Runaway (Fox Ridge Shifters Book 1) Page 20