Storm Born

by Christine Pope

  Feeling a little dazed, I went out front with Jake to wait for my new car. He looked down at me. “Happy?”

  “I think so,” I replied cautiously. “Honestly, I’m feeling a little shell-shocked.”

  “It is kind of an ordeal,” he agreed. “But I hope you’re not too tired — I want to make another stop before we head back to the house.”

  Right then, I just wanted to follow Jake back to his place and then order takeout for lunch or something. “We’re not buying anything else, are we?”

  His brown eyes twinkled. “Just one more thing.”

  I got the feeling that any protests would fall on deaf ears. “Okay…as long as we’re not chasing all over town.”

  “Nope,” he said cheerfully. “We just need to go to the Best Buy we passed on our way over here. No chasing involved.”

  Best Buy? Was he going to buy me a washing machine or something?

  However, after I’d gotten behind the wheel of the Fiat and followed Jake’s Gladiator to the store in question, I thought I understood what he’d been talking about, since he took me over to the Apple kiosk toward the back of the store and paused by the laptops.

  “You really need a computer.”

  Well, probably I did, but I wasn’t sure a Mac was necessary. I could get by with some sort of inexpensive PC, and told him as much.

  “Maybe,” he allowed. “But you need to stop selling yourself short, Addie. That is,” he went on after a hard look at my face, “if you’re more of a PC kind of girl, then sure, I can understand why you wouldn’t want a Mac. If it’s all about the cost, though….” He let the words sort of evaporate after that, as though trying to remind me that Jackson Wilcox’s only daughter shouldn’t be wasting her time with penny pinching.

  And that’s what it was, really. In high school and college, I’d eyed my fellow students’ shiny MacBook Pros and MacBook Airs with envy, wishing I could have afforded one. I’d used Macs in the computer labs at school and really liked them, found them easier to work with than a PC. But there was no way in the world I could ever have justified the cost, and so I’d done my best to tell myself that a Mac certainly wasn’t a requirement for doing well in school.

  With Jake still staring at me with that one lifted eyebrow, as if he knew all too well the thoughts that were passing through my head, I guessed it would be stupid to lie.

  “Okay,” I said at last. “Yes, I want one. But a MacBook Air — I want something light and easy to carry around.”

  “Not a problem,” he replied. “It’s your computer, after all.”

  So we chose the one with the maxed-out memory and processor, along with a nice padded laptop bag, and Jake put the whole thing on his credit card. That made it probably around thirty-five grand I owed him after that day’s little shopping expedition, and I vowed to myself that I’d go to Chase the next day and get a cashier’s check for the entire amount. I hated the thought of owing anyone money — especially that much money — even though I knew he honestly didn’t care how slow I was about paying him back.

  Afterward, I followed him back to the house, parking my new car in the driveway while he put the big Gladiator in the garage.

  “Hungry?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said, adding quickly, “but can we get takeout or something? That kind of wore me out.”

  “You like Indian food?”

  I had absolutely no idea, since I’d never had any. When I confessed that lack to Jake, he shook his head.

  “Well, then, I’ll order some and you can tell me what you think. Time to broaden your horizons a little.”

  Looking at him, I thought I’d like my horizons broadened…and soon. In the meantime, though, it sounded like fun to try some Indian food.

  “Sure,” I said. “Only nothing too spicy. I’m kind of a wimp about that kind of thing.”

  One eyebrow lifted, but he only said, “No problem,” and pulled out his phone and called in an order of things I’d never even heard of before — samosas and naan and chicken tikka masala.

  While we were waiting for the food to arrive, I got out my new laptop and started setting it up. Jake gave me the info for his wifi network, and in less than fifteen minutes, I was up and running. I was even able to get my Gmail account connected to the mail program on the MacBook, although there really wasn’t much to see, except a couple of reminder emails from the college about signing up for the fall semester. Obviously, the admissions department and the financial aid department weren’t very good about keeping tabs on one another.

  Seeing those emails sent a pang through me. I wouldn’t be going back to U of U. Everything I’d left behind was pretty much gone, and I still wasn’t quite sure how I felt about the situation. Sad…but with a certain guilty excitement underlying the sorrow. I probably shouldn’t have enjoyed my morning as much as I had, and yet I was thrilled with my new car and my shiny new laptop, eager to see what would happen next.

  “Everything okay?” Jake asked as he glanced up from his phone. He’d probably been checking emails or texts, but must have spotted the troubled expression on my face.

  “Fine,” I told him. “Just looking at some emails.”

  His dark gaze was searching, but he didn’t probe, only said, “Okay.”

  At that moment, my phone pinged from inside my purse. Since I wasn’t used to the iPhone’s alert sounds, I didn’t quite know what that meant. However, I still leaned over and dug out the phone from my purse, then checked the screen.

  A couple of new texts from Connor.

  I realized you probably would want to see our father, he wrote. I don’t keep old family photos around, but then I remembered I had a few on my phone. Our cousin Marie digitized a bunch of Wilcox pictures and put them in a database Jeremy set up — he can give you a username and password so you can access them whenever. But here are a couple to get you started.

  Attached to the message was a photo. I clicked on it, and found myself having to swallow hard against the sudden lump in my throat.

  The picture was of a man in probably his late thirties or so, which meant it must have been taken long before he’d ever met my mother. He stood in front of a tall Christmas tree and had two boys with him, one on either side. The younger child had dark hair and gray-green eyes, and I realized I was looking at Connor himself. He’d been maybe five or six, while the other boy was much older, high school age, tall and handsome already, with black hair rippling back from his brow and eyes so dark, they looked black as well.

  Damon, I thought. The brother I’d never met, would never be able to meet, because he’d died more than five years earlier. Maybe someday, someone would tell me exactly what had happened to him. Probably not Connor, though; I already got the feeling he really didn’t want to talk about it.

  However, my real focus was on the man in the middle. There was a strong resemblance between him and Damon, more so than Connor. Maybe Connor took more after his mother. However, I could still see certain echoes in Connor’s features as well — the strong black brows, the well-defined chin. He’d been handsome, that unknown father of mine, with the kind of looks I guessed had aged pretty well. No wonder my mother had been attracted to Jackson Wilcox, even though he must have been old enough to be her father.

  I didn’t think I looked all that much like him, even though Connor and I shared some similarities in appearance. For all I knew, that was simply because we resembled our mothers in a lot of ways, and that softening of Jackson’s somewhat harsh features had somehow worked its same magic on both of us. Even so, I knew at once that he was my father. There were just enough echoes of his appearance in my face for me to realize I couldn’t deny he was the one my mother had been with all those years ago.

  Not that I’d planned on making those denials, when I had the whole Wilcox clan apparently ready to embrace me as their own. Still, it felt more than strange to finally put a face to the man who’d changed my mother’s life forever.

  The other photo was of Jackson alone. He was o
lder in that shot, probably closer to the age he’d been when he encountered my mother in that Flagstaff bar twenty-five years ago. And yes, I’d been right about one thing — age had only tempered his looks, made his features more chiseled and that much more striking. I didn’t know who’d taken the picture, but they’d managed to catch him in what I guessed was a rare unguarded moment. He sat behind a desk, but his attention didn’t seem to be focused on any of the paperwork I saw spread out before him. No, he stared off somewhere in the distance, expression brooding and almost sad. Had he felt his mortality creeping up on him, guessed that he might not have too much longer on this earth?

  Impossible for me to say, but in that moment, I felt an irrational stir of anger toward my mother. She’d always been emphatic about not telling my father I existed, had said that it was her decision to keep me and she wasn’t about to go begging him for money. When I was younger, I’d been proud of her for standing on her own, even if I’d secretly wished I could have met the man who contributed half my genetic makeup…and possibly somewhat resentful that maybe our lives wouldn’t have been so hard if she’d only swallowed her pride and reached out to him for some support.

  Sitting there in Jake’s living room, though, I could only wonder if Jackson Wilcox might have looked a little happier if he’d known he had a daughter, someone who apparently had managed to escape the Wilcox curse.

  I knew that was pure conjecture on my part, and yet…

  …and yet, he looked so sad. Too bad my talent wasn’t time travel. Then I could go back to him and tell him who I was, that the curse didn’t have quite as much of a stranglehold on his existence as he thought it did.

  “What’re you looking at?” Jake’s voice. “Is everything okay?”

  I started, then gave myself a mental shake as I tried to bring myself back to the here and now. Jake stood near the end of the sofa, watching me with concern in his eyes.

  “Fine,” I said. “Connor sent me a couple of pictures of my father.” I tilted the phone toward him so he could see the screen, and he frowned slightly.

  “Wow. I don’t think I ever saw Jackson look like that around other people.”

  Not surprising. Everyone had done their best to dance around the issue, but even so, I got the impression that my biological father hadn’t been the nicest person in the world.

  “Do you know who took this photo?”

  Jake shook his head. “Not really. Maybe Marie — she’s the only person I can think of that Jackson might have let his guard down around.”

  Marie again. “She’s kind of an important person in the clan, isn’t she?”

  “Yeah, I suppose so. She’s a seer. In most witch clans, the seer — or seers — consult with the primus or prima a lot.”

  I stared at him blankly. “Seer…as in see the future?”

  “Basically. Their visions aren’t always perfect, though, or require some interpretation. But still…seeing the future is sort of a big deal.”

  There was an understatement. Yet another talent that sounded infinitely preferable to mine. Then again, I didn’t know for sure if I’d really want to know what was about to happen. Life was difficult enough without always trying to maneuver to avoid a frightening future.

  The doorbell rang then, and Jake went to answer it. A minute later, he came back carrying two large bags of takeout.

  “You planning on feeding an army?” I inquired, eyeing the bags with some alarm. Yes, I was hungry, but still….

  “Indian food makes great leftovers,” he said with apparent unconcern. “Let’s eat — I set the table while you were looking at your phone.”

  Speaking of which…. I took one last glance at my father’s handsome, sorrowful face, and locked the screen on the iPhone and put it back in my purse before following Jake into the dining room. As he’d said, he’d set the table already, using some placemats that looked handwoven from cotton rags, the sort of thing you might buy at an art fair or something, and heavy stoneware plates fired in comforting shades of soft blue and brown and tan. Folded-up paper towels instead of real napkins, but since my mother and I did the same thing most of the time, I wasn’t too concerned by the lack of ceremony.

  The food was good. Spicier than I’d expected — but not so spicy that I couldn’t manage — and in an almost dizzying variety of flavors and colors and textures. I tried one dish after another, focusing on the unfamiliar seasonings and combinations, on how it was all so different from anything I’d ever had before.

  “Good?” Jake asked when I slowed down to take a sip of water.

  “It’s great,” I replied. “Thanks for suggesting Indian food. Now I know what I’ve been missing all my life.”

  “We have some pretty good restaurants in Flag,” he said. “I mean, it’s not like the variety you’d get down in Phoenix, but still, we do okay.”

  From what I’d had so far — the takeout this afternoon and dinner the night before at Criollo and the Greek takeout we’d shared with Laurel and Jeremy at “HQ” — I thought Flagstaff was doing more than okay. And in that moment, I realized I was doing okay, too. The pain still lay deep inside, coiled within me, but I could manage it. With any luck, each day would get a little better.

  I hoped.

  “I like Flagstaff,” I said. Maybe a juvenile remark, but it was the truth. I liked this town, liked the variety of experiences it offered and the beautiful mountains that soared above it and the deep quiet of the ponderosa forests that spread out for miles on all sides. It was the sort of place that wanted to be home.

  I wanted it to be my home.

  Jake’s eyes caught mine. He set down the half-eaten piece of naan he’d been holding and said quietly, “I’m glad. I wanted you to like it here.”

  Just like that, heat flooded through me. I could have lied and said it was only the spiciness of the tikka masala I was sensing, but I knew better. No, the warmth pooling in my stomach and rippling out to my fingertips had very little to do with the meal and everything to do with the answering warmth I saw in his eyes.

  Since I hadn’t responded, he added, in an even lower tone, “And I like you.”

  A whisper, a breath. “I like you, too, Jake.”

  His hand reached across the table, and I extended my own hand so my fingers could twine with his, feeling again the strength in them, the welcome heat of his tanned skin. My heart seemed to skip a beat, and I had to force myself to stay there, to allow this moment to happen. It was frightening, the way I reacted to him, when all he’d done was touch my hand. What would happen if we went any further than that?

  I realized I was about to find out, because he pushed his chair back and stood, making me rise with him, since our fingers were still entwined. A breath, and another, and then he pulled me close and placed his lips against mine. Gently, as though he knew he needed to make it easy for me to pull away if I wanted to.

  No chance of that. As soon as our mouths touched, the heat flared in me again, hotter and stronger and brighter than anything I’d ever experienced before. I’d never realized that a kiss could feel like this, could make me run hot and cold at the same time, make me feel as though I would tremble to pieces at his touch…but also seem as if I was suddenly strong enough to leap over the tallest of the San Francisco Peaks.

  He tasted of spices, savory and exotic at the same time. Then his arms were around me, holding me close, the muscles of his chest hard against my breasts. In that moment, I wanted to tear our clothes off, remove the annoying pieces of fabric that prevented me from feeling his bare skin against mine.

  Somehow, though, I managed to hold it together. And sometime later — an eternity or so — he ended the kiss, lifting his mouth from mine so he could gaze at me intently.

  “Wow,” he said.

  “I second that motion,” I joked weakly, and then we both laughed, more to break the tension than because my remark was really all that funny. A pause, and then I said, “Is this — ?”

  “What?”

  “Is thi
s normal?” I placed a hand against his chest and could feel his heart beating beneath my palm, strong but fast. Clearly, he was just as stimulated as I.

  He ran a hand through his hair, making adorable little pieces stick up from the rest. Right then, I got an idea of what he might look like when he woke up in the morning…which was probably not the sort of thing I should have been thinking about in that particular moment, not with his bedroom right upstairs. Way too dangerous.

  “Define ‘normal,’” he said with a twitch of his lip.

  “Normal for witches and warlocks,” I said. “I mean — that wasn’t my first kiss. But it might as well have been.”

  Jake laced his fingers through mine, and led me out of the dining room and back over to the sofa. It was probably also dangerous to sit close to him, but I found I couldn’t force any distance between us, had to sit so our legs were touching. He noticed, I could tell, but he didn’t comment on my closeness, only frowned a little as he appeared to consider my comment.

  “It’s maybe a little different for us than it is for regular people,” he told me, his tone quite different now, serious, almost earnest. “We tend to recognize the person who’s our match — our soul mate, for lack of a better term — when we’re pretty young. Divorce rates among witch-kind are very low. I don’t know if that’s an echo of the consort relationship, or — ”

  “‘Consort’?” I echoed, interrupting him. “What’s that?”

  His fingers tightened on mine; we’d remained holding hands that whole time. “In most clans, it’s a woman who runs things. And that woman — the prima — has to meet her consort sometime during her twenty-first year and bind herself to him, for lack of a better term. It’s a very intense relationship, from what I’ve been able to tell. Anyway, some people think that the way most witches and warlocks also find their soul mate early on is sort of a reflection of the prima/consort relationship. So….” Jake released a breath and shifted on the sofa so he was looking directly at me. “So I guess you could say that the way we reacted to each other is normal, for a witch and a warlock. I just….”