Debora Geary: A Nomadic Witch

And then his hand brushed plastic. Mental mists threatening, Marcus hissed into the dark-and dug for the small toy hiding in the rocks.

One toy soldier, consigned to ignominious burial under a pile of shiny pebbles. Marcus clutched the small green figure and hurled a single howl of grief out into the night.

And then, with the wrenching practice of four decades, he locked it down. Pushed away the mists and the grief and the aching crevice that ran the length of his soul.

Hands steady now, Marcus laid the soldier back on the rocks. Perhaps he’d give Kevin and Sean the other five, tucked in their shoebox mausoleum in the back of his closet. Grown men had no need of toy soldiers.

The splinters didn’t dare bother him on the way out. No blood left for them to find. He emerged from behind the board and stood, slightly dizzy and blinded by the moon’s brightness. Long past time to go.

It was a short walk to his cottage, even tucked away on the edge of the village as he was. He was getting far too comfortable in Fisher’s Cove. Maybe the soldier was a reminder-pain grew in the soil here. He needed the long, remote beaches of his cliffside home.

Ha. He hadn’t been there in months. Every time he turned to go, there were witchlings or cookies or Aunt Moira’s unwavering eyes. Always another creeping tentacle holding him here, trying to make him forget the pain.

Or trying to make him remember it.

Perhaps the dead of night was as good a time as any to leave.

Marcus thumped up his walkway, wondering where the hell he’d left the keys to his Jeep-and nearly fell headlong into the front door. Bloody Hecate, always tripping him up. The creature could damn well stay in Fisher’s Cove. He looked down for the cursed cat-and froze.

Two shiny eyes looked up at him.

And then the thing in the basket stirred-and ice closed over Marcus’s heart.

Such giggles. Moira held tight to the fleeting laughter as the vestiges of her dream slowly leaked away. She knew those giggles, even if decades had passed since they’d rung in her world.

Evan and Marcus. Light and dark, the two of them-and they’d wrapped the entire village around their fingers the day they were born. Evan, a born leader with mischief in his heart, and his twin, the thinker.

Sean and Kevin often reminded her of the boys who had once been.

Memory floated in now, mixing with the giggles of dream. More had been lost that horrible day than Evan’s light. The oldest of magics had come for their beautiful boy-and left behind terrible mystery and heartrending loss.

And giggles that came only in dreams.

Moira reached for the bedside lamp. Old women had trouble going back to sleep, and this dream had carried weight. She’d go fix some tea and sit at her table and remember. Evan, my boy, you left us far too soon.

And try as they might, they couldn’t heal the twin who missed his light.

She let the tears come. There was magic in tears, just as there was in tea and remembering.

Even in tiny Fisher’s Cove, it wasn’t all that unusual for someone to pound on the healer’s door in the middle of the night.

Sophie cuddled into Mike, trying to find the part of her brain capable of waking up-and hoping the noise didn’t wake up Adam. Elorie’s twins slept through anything, but Adam was a whole different story. Maybe they could rig a soundproofing spell for their bedroom.

“I’ll handle it.” Mike dropped a kiss on her head and swung out of bed, speaking in whispers. “You sleep.”

Her husband was a good healer. Heck, six-year-old Lizzie was a good healer. Surely they could make do without her for one night.

Unless it was Moira again.

Wide awake now, Sophie reached for her robe, and heard Adam squirming in the bassinet beside the bed. Damn.

“I’ll handle it.” Mike’s brown eyes drilled into hers, self-designated protector of her sleep. “It’s not Moira-you’d know.”

She would-she laid a light healing scan in place every night, even though her husband frowned at the energy it cost her.

Adam’s noises got louder. With a sigh, Sophie grabbed her baby sling. The rocking spell on the bassinet was sheer genius, but even it couldn’t keep her little seedling asleep most nights. It was hard not to be jealous of Elorie’s bright eyes and four consecutive hours of sleep at a time.

Sophie shook her head, chuckling quietly. Anyone jealous of the easy life of a mother of two-month-old twins needed to have her head examined. Aislin and Lucas might sleep well, but they kept everyone hopping the rest of the time.

A couple of small adjustments to the sling, and Adam settled in happily. He’d stay that way as long as she kept moving. Time to go see what the fuss was about.

Singing a soft lullaby, she headed out of their back rooms toward the front door-and frowned. The voices at the door were male. Mike, and… Marcus?

Her steps hastened, healer brain snapping into place. “What’s wrong?”

Marcus, pasty white, held out a basket. “I found this on my porch.”

Sophie moved closer. Gingerly. Given the look on his face, it couldn’t be pretty.

The last thing she expected was pink cheeks, a head of riotous red fuzz, and the most gorgeous deep-lavender eyes she’d ever seen.

Sophie reached out a finger, enthralled. And then froze as gold-lamé-clad messengers and reality collided. Oh, God. A baby.

Her eyes shot to Marcus. Fear and denial coated every stark inch of him.

Tired mamas and smart healers didn’t beat their heads against that kind of brick wall. Not without reinforcements. Sophie smiled down at the baby one more time-and dodged down the path of least resistance. “She’s beautiful. Bring her inside where we can get a closer look at her.”

Marcus stood, frozen to the spot. “Take her.” His rasp belonged to a headless horseman.

Even tired mamas weren’t that dumb. Sophie waved a quiet hand at Mike, who headed for the door. Time to wake up some backup. She patted Adam’s bottom, checking that he slept quietly in his sling. “I only carry one baby at a time. Come on inside.”

With the experience of a healer long used to reluctant patients, she shepherded the mostly catatonic Marcus into the living room, still holding the basket out at arm’s length as if it contained a red-haired, lavender-eyed bomb.

Maybe it did.

“Set her down here, on the table.” Sophie looked into the bright eyes. Just what they needed-another night-owl baby. She reached out a finger again, this time adding a light healing scan. “Hello, beautiful. What’s your name?”

“Morgan. There’s a note.” Marcus had backed away to the far corner of the room. Sophie hoped Mike was quick.

“That’s a big name for such a little girl.” Sophie kept crooning nonsense, mostly for Marcus’s benefit. A tie, however tenuous, holding him in the room. “And healthy, too.” The first levels of healing scan showed a perfectly healthy baby girl, about three months old.

The physical covered, Sophie shifted to scanning the magical. Her hands moved with the automatic ease of something done thousands of times-and then tripped into dynamite.

Holy hell.

Sophie spun around, one arm cradling Adam tightly. “She’s covered in magic.”

He nodded, wordless-and now she understood his fear.

A lavender-eyed bomb. Sophie stepped away, mama bear protecting the child in her arms.

The rasp from the far wall bruised her ears. “I’ve shielded him. Adam. She’ll do him no harm.”

More carefully now, Sophie traced magical lines. Yes, Adam was shielded-as was every other little one in Fisher’s Cove. Marcus the recluse had a very soft spot for the tiny and weak.

He moved a step closer into the room. “The magic isn’t hers, or at least, not mostly hers. Is it safe to drain it?”