Magpies & Moonshine
Heather R. Blair
Trampled Herb
MAGPIES & MOONSHINE
By
Heather R. Blair
Kindle version
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, organizations and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Kindle Edition, License Notes
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© 2017 Heather R. Blair
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Created with Vellum
Contents
Preface
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Afterword
Also by Heather R. Blair
One for sorrow,
Two for joy,
Three for a girl,
Four for a boy,
Five for silver,
Six for gold,
Seven for a secret
Never to be told . . .
Prologue
I’m not like my sisters. I’ve always known that. I don’t quite click.
Most of the time, I’m okay with that. But I can’t pretend it isn’t lonely. The worst part is that when people don’t understand you, they often misunderstand you on purpose. Like my family’s propensity to treat me like an adorable pet.
I’m not Lassie, despite the similar hair.
Sure, that’s probably unfair, but still. My hooking up with the baddest badass in the neighborhood wasn’t a deliberate attempt to change the way they see me, but I was hoping it might be a happy side effect.
Not that I knew much about Styx before we met. I’d heard of him, of course. In Duluth, how could you not?
Mishipeshu. The monster in the lake. The FTC who’s not an FTC. Not elemental or shifter or god, but somehow all of the above. A thing apart.
Kind of like me.
He’s lived in this area for centuries, perhaps even millennia. He’s incredibly elusive. Other than my sister Seph running into him a time or two, I’d never heard of anyone who’d met him face-to-face. Of course, it’s not like I get out much either.
I do enjoy my own company. Maybe too much. Sometimes I wonder if that’s the way I coped with losing my sisters—by falling so deeply into myself. My imagination is boundless and I feed it with painting and online worlds. But that doesn’t mean that I don’t crave a deeper connection. Unlike my sisters, I’ve always been a romantic at heart. I never gave up on finding that connection either, even as the years rolled by.
My whole life, I’ve had this feeling. This feeling that I was waiting for something.
Not necessarily something dramatic—I don’t require a grand love scene accompanied by a swelling operatic crescendo, or even a climactic noir fade to black, as much as I always loved those.
Nope. I was looking for that little throwaway shot, the one that turns the tide of the whole film. A simple shutter click that would make it all come together in a single stroke of clarity.
The first time I saw Styx was at Dungeon’s End.
It’s this tiny West Duluth hole-in-the-wall gaming shop that’s full of young men and boys most afternoons, the kind that are supposedly awkward around the fairer sex. I couldn’t say one way or the other; I’ve been going so long they barely bat an eye when I walk in anymore. I love gaming, even though I’m a bit old-school.
World of Warcraft is falling out of fashion in the online world, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing. With the hype wearing off, this MMORPG is back in the hands of the people who really love it, i.e., the fanatics, like me.
My WoW guild meets once a month IRL to hang and chat. Not the whole guild, duh. But there are four of us who live somewhat locally and aren’t afraid to out ourselves in public. We’re as mixed a bag as you can find anywhere. Dave is nearly fifty. He’s too young to be a true hippie, but you wouldn’t know it by his rainbow peace sign shirts, long greying hair and sweet smile. Mike and Dawson are in their twenties, brothers with a cornucopia of surprisingly useful trivia between them. We’re all kind of odd ducks, but we like each other and we always have fun. Outside of my family and one growly bruin who is no longer with us, these are my only friends.
That day, I was setting a bunch of Ana’s tarts in the middle of one of the small backroom tables to appreciative applause when I felt a tickle of power, like someone brushing their fingers over the nape of my neck.
I looked over my shoulder to see Styx playing first-edition D&D in the corner with a bunch of other guys. He was wearing a Minnesota Wild shirt with the sleeves pushed up, a pair of worn jeans and scuffed boots, like probably half the guys in the state, though I doubt you can find many who are six and a half feet tall with long, silver-blond hair. His eyes were fixed on the guy playing dungeon master so I could only see his profile, but that was enough to catch my artistic interest. Harsh, spare lines, unforgivingly masculine, the shadow on his jaw shockingly dark for one with such pale hair. Fascinating.
I blinked. Then looked again. He must have felt my stare because his gaze lifted. Flat, golden eyes like two well-rubbed coins met mine. Just like that, my lightbulb went click.
He frowned. I smiled.
That pretty much sums up our relationship so far.
But now things are changing.
1
“I fucking forbid it, Carly!” Styx’s voice resembles thunder when he’s angry, and he’s really angry right now.
“Forbid?” I question mildly, huffing at a curl that wants to fall in my eyes as I look up at him. He isn’t fooled by my tone.
With narrowed golden eyes, he pushes the curl back for me, tucking it behind my ear, his touch as gentle as his voice is rough. As always, the feel of him lifts the fine hairs on the back of my arms and neck in a rush of awareness, but I only smile in thanks and turn back to the half-finished mural in front of me.
The bruin in my painting is gone now. I’m sad about that, but it was past time to let him go. My new landscape needs a few finishing touches to be complete. It’s an odd one, I have to admit, even for me.
The grass isn’t green, but a deep purple. The sky is grey, not soft and pale grey like the fog pre
ssed up against our windows at the moment, but a shiny gunmetal grey, like that of spaceships. Getting to my feet, I frown and step back to look at it again.
“Stop ignoring me,” he grumbles.
“Not ignoring, employing selective hearing,” I murmur, stepping forward to add a few stars. Like our stars, except upside down and backward.
“I don’t like this whole thing. The Old World hasn’t exactly been kind to your family lately.”
My mother wants me to run something to Asgaard for her tomorrow, which means a quick trip to the Old World. Norway, to be precise. It’s a bit nerve-racking, sure. But from the way Styx has been acting, you’d think I was Frodo taking the ring to Mordor. “It’s only for a day or two. I’ll be back before the weekend,” I explain for around the thirty-third time. “She is my mother, Styx. I have to do what she says.”
“No. You don’t.” His jaw is ticking in and out. Never a good sign. “Why does this have to be you?”
I’ve explained this already, too, but I do it one more time. “Because everyone else is far too volatile at the moment. No way can Ana or Jett chance going to the Old World right now.” I think of Georg’s aunt Agatha. “Or Seph for that matter. But no one knows or cares about little ol’ me.”
That sexy hollow in his jaw flexes again. “That’s a bunch of—”
“What do you think?” I poke a dripping paintbrush at the wall.
Despite a soft growl of frustration, Styx glances over my shoulder. “Honestly, I think you’re trying to drive me—”
For the first time, he really looks at the new painting. His mouth snaps shut. The blood drains from his face, his big hands clenching at his sides. I frown, looking from him to the mural and back again.
“What’s wrong?”
“I hate it.” His tone is harsh. He’s never harsh with me. Impatient, exasperated, yes. Harsh? Never. “Paint over it. Now.”
“What . . .”
“Now.” Without another word, Styx leaves me standing in the hallway, staring after him long after the front door has closed.
I turn back to my mural with a frown. I don’t get his reaction. It’s a weird painting, sure, but it’s not scary. Like most of my murals, this one comes from my dreams. Unlike the rest of them, though, I can’t ever seem to remember the details of this one. Only the landscape sticks with me.
Tilting my head, I narrow my eyes at the strange metallic hues of the scene and finally shrug. I don’t have time to paint over it tonight, but if it bothers him so much, I’ll do it as soon as I get back.
I rinse out my brushes one by one, capping the paints and tucking them back into their box. I hate that he’s upset about this trip, but I can’t please them both. And despite how I feel about Styx, in this case, Mom takes precedence.
I trust my mother. I always have. My sisters have issues with her ways and means and I can’t say I haven’t had doubts over the long years. Secrets and lies and orders that are never quite explained to anyone’s satisfaction. But the thing is, I have really good instincts about people. It’s part of my powers, I guess. Not that I can see the future, like Mom. Or the present, like Ana. My talent is more murky and elusive, a bit of both. That’s why I paint; it helps to channel my dreams and visions into something real, something that helps me figure them out.
That’s the idea anyway.
I sigh. Most of the time, that instinct is more maddening than helpful.
But . . . it’s why I always knew Jack Frost wasn’t as evil as he wanted everyone to believe, despite a plethora of evidence to the contrary. Why my trust in Jett never wavered, even when it was proved she was a murderer.
My mother has always, always made me feel safe. I trust that. Whatever she does, no matter how crazy, is motivated by love and a desire to protect.
And honestly, I am just an optimistic person. Recklessly so, at least by FTC standards.
Does that mean I am Judy Garland, tripping down the yellow-brick road and singing about rainbows?
Um, no.
I can be stubborn. Quietly so, maybe, but . . . let’s just say I subscribe to the Robert Downey Jr. way of thinking: Listen, smile, agree and then do whatever the fuck you were gonna do anyway.
Gotta respect the Iron Man.
But this trip is important, or Mom wouldn’t be making such a big deal about it.
Styx is right about one thing: this is different, her asking me for something like this. My family never sends me on anything remotely risky. My lips press together. I trust them, but they don’t trust me. Not even Mom, who some would say is a bit cavalier with her daughters’ safety. There is a reason for that, though it’s not one I’m willing to share with Styx, at least not yet. It’s also why I am uniquely qualified to be the one to enter Asgaard.
I chew my lower lip, thinking. I haven’t even been to the Old World since I was a child. I’m nervous, and I get that it’s even worse from Styx’s point of view. He’s a very protective guy. I’ll never forget the look on his face when I woke up in his arms after the whole werewolf incident. I shiver and dry my brushes on a soft cloth before tucking them away, too.
Since that memorable night Styx has seen my mom’s plans get one sister killed, at least temporarily, another turned into a murderer along with being kidnapped, then yet another kidnapped and her magic stolen, even if she received an even greater power in the end.
He’s got good reason to be pissed and growly. Which is oddly endearing, because I am the only thing that ever provokes a reaction from that man.
At least in some ways.
With a sigh, I gather my paints for the day, turning my back on the alien sky that has slowly begun to drift and swirl behind me.
There’s an assassin, a king and an almost-god in the kitchen. No, that’s not the beginning of some epic joke, it’s my reality. There has never been so much testosterone in this house at one time. The old girl must be swooning.
“How’s it hanging, boys?” I say, squeezing past Stephen’s enormous bulk to get to the sink.
The bruin frowns. “Styx gone?”
“Yup.” I grab the Dawn with one paint-streaked hand and start sudsing up. The silence behind me grows deafening. Finally, I peek over my shoulder, raising an eyebrow.
“We want to talk to you,” Jack says, his icy eyes still and narrowed in that way that makes most FTCs freeze in their tracks. “About Styx.”
Tyr taps his fingers on the table restlessly. My gaze flicks to the former assassin of the realm. He’ll soon be a glorified professor, a fact I must admit is amusing. His long dark hair falls over one shoulder, the hilt of his shiny new sword rising over the other and winking with inlaid moonstones.
Next to me, Stephen folds his arms. Even sitting down, the bruin king is so big he makes me feel like a gnome instead of the tallest of my sisters. Of course, that’s not saying much in my family.
“We’re family now, Carly,” he says, echoing my thought in that royal growl. “We want you to be safe.”
“Styx is not safe.” Jack again.
“And you guys are?” I deadpan.
Three handsome faces scowl in tandem.
I roll my eyes, turning my back on them to rinse and dry my hands, taking my time laying Ana’s dishtowel over the hanger as I decide how to handle this. Good thing I have lots of experience with nosy sisters. “Look, I appreciate the sentiment.” Sorta. I don’t turn around. “It’s even kind of sweet. But you have nothing to worry about.”
“Are you sure about that?” Jack says coolly. I can practically hear his boot heels digging in for battle. I’m not in the mood. “You don’t know—”
“I’m a witch,” I interrupt sweetly, turning to face them. “I know lots of things. Like how to make boils grow in interesting places.”
Jack raises an eyebrow and looks at Stephen. Stephen looks at Jack.
“Carly.” The bruin king takes the ball, using his sweet, reasonable, aren’t-I-just-a-big-old-teddy-bear voice. “I really—”
“Big boils.” My sug
ared tone slides right through his. “Huge ones. So huge sometimes they take things with them when they burst. Important things that may take a long time to grow back.” I lean back against the counter and fold my arms. “If they grow back at all.”
The two men exchange another look. With identical sighs, they get to their feet. Stephen gives me such an honestly concerned look I feel a twinge of guilt, but only a small one. Gods know I’m sick to death of being coddled. Who wouldn’t after a couple hundred years? I force a smile and ripple my fingers at the bruin, trying to channel Jett’s carefree attitude.
He smiles in a way that tells me I am fooling no one and then his broad back vanishes into the hall. Jack studies me for a long minute before shaking his head.
“Be careful, Carly. Just . . .” The elemental squeezes my shoulder as he passes. “Be careful.”
Okay, now the guilt is more than a twinge. Dammit, why do they have to be so sweet about their meddling? I slump against the counter, then turn to flick a hand at the liquor bottles lined in a neat sparkling row above the cupboards.
Having a sister that owns a bar means we’re always well stocked. I don’t drink much and when I do, I usually go for a single beer, but tonight calls for something stronger. With my magic, I push aside the fancy stuff Ana uses for cooking and find what I’m looking for. A dusty green glass bottle with a white cork and a pale, six-pointed star etched into the front. I grab a glass as it floats to the counter.
Magpies & Moonshine (Toil and Trouble Book 6) Page 1