Debora Geary - A Nomadic Witch

Surely someone would rescue him in the morning.

He struck bottle gold just as the creature in his arms dialed up her volume several levels. He took one suspicious look at the enormous end-that fit in a baby’s mouth?-and shoved it in the right general direction. Hopefully she’d know what to do with it.

She mouthed the bottle with interest, the half-second of quiet music to his ears. And then let loose the hell of a baby scorned.

Ye gods and little fishes. Marcus glared at the bottle-he’d seen them work, dammit! What was wrong with this one?

The business end of it still looked wrong.

And the child was still wailing like he’d shot her in the kneecaps. Quiet, girl-child-how do you expect me to think with all this racket?

Perfect. Now he was mindyelling at an infant.

A very quiet, very still infant. Purple eyes watched him in utter fascination. Amused in spite of himself, Marcus reached for her mind again. You can hear me this way, can you? It’s a much more civilized way to communicate. None of that screeching, all right?

He’d have sworn her mind felt vaguely amused. Which was preposterous-babies understood simple mindsent emotions, nothing more. Probably just gas.

Marcus looked over at the bottle again. And noticed the clear cover disguising something that looked far more likely to dispense milk.

Baby bottles had caps.

Gods. Clearly the designer hadn’t been holding a wailing baby.

If he survived the night, that someone was going to get a piece of his mind. Presuming he had one left. He flicked the cover off the bottle and watched it roll down the street in disgust. Fantastically bad design.

And be damned if he was going to scrounge around in the gravel and dark for a piece of plastic.

This time, baby met bottle with happy sucking sounds. Which made him weak-kneed with relief-he wasn’t entirely sure returning to Sophie’s door would be met with any response. Aunt Moira had decided the baby was his, in the tone of voice that no smart witch in Fisher’s Cove ever ignored.

He’d tangle with his aunt in the morning-and the rest of the witch hive mind. After they’d all gotten some sleep.

He juggled bag, bottle, and baby until it seemed safe to attempt to walk. “Just you and me, kid. Time to go home.”

Her bright eyes were half closed now, her hands and feet pushing softly against his chest. Marcus pulled down his mental barriers as the leaking bliss in her mind touched his. She was happy-no need to intrude.

He ignored the small, impertinent voice in his mind that wanted to kiss the top of her head.

Marcus Buchanan didn’t kiss babies.

Moira leaned back from the window, well satisfied. “That was a lovely bit of work, ladies.”

Nell chuckled from the sofa, Ginia sound asleep in her lap. “That was pretty mean. The man’s hopeless with babies.”

Aye, he was. “All the better to keep his mind off the rest of it, at least until morning.”

Sophie was still jiggling, walking Adam back to sleep. “She’s stopped crying-he must be doing something right.”

“He found the business end of the bottle.” Which would probably keep their wee Morgan satisfied for a few hours at least. Moira smiled at her granddaughter, falling asleep beside Ginia on the couch. “It’s good Elorie had some milk to spare.”

“Between us, we can probably make enough milk for one more.”

“That’ll work until Marcus figures out what’s in the bottle.” Nell snickered again-quietly.

Her nephew was rather squeamish about the whole process of breastfeeding and babies. Silly man. He’d been perfectly fine with it as a wee one cuddled up for food, his legs all tangled with Evan’s.

Evan.

The sadness flooded into Moira’s heart again. Her sweet Irish leprechaun, full of tricks and mischief. Apparently some things hadn’t changed in forty-some years. Sending obscure messages from beyond the veil was one thing. A baby wrapped in magic was an entirely different level of prank.

She shivered. Or maybe not a prank at all. Morgan was a name of portent, one wrapped in the deepest roots of witch history.

A hand touched her shoulder. Sophie, with Adam finally sleeping. “It can wait until morning. Go get some rest-tomorrow’s not likely to be easy.”

Sleep wouldn’t come soon this night. “We can handle one wee girl.”

Sophie’s eyes carried hints of warning. “She’s not ours to handle. We don’t even truly know if she’s meant to stay.”

Ah, the young-so suspicious of the old magics. They’d trust an email in a heartbeat, but not a simple missive from the dead.

“We need to try to trace her parents. I’ll get Jamie and Daniel on that first thing in the morning.” Nell shifted carefully on the couch, pulling out her phone-and then grinned at the screen. “Never mind-they’re already on it. Jamie’s tracked down Adele. Apparently we’re going to Las Vegas tomorrow.”

Well, an outfit like that likely hadn’t escaped from rural Vermont. “Treat her with respect, my dear. She touches large magics, even if her own powers are weak.”

“Oh, I’ve got plenty of respect for her. She cracked Realm security.” Nell’s eyes sparked with both steel and momentary humor. “The only other guy ever to do that is not happy right now.”

Men always took such things as a personal affront. “I’ll trust you to stay focused on the more important questions, my dear.”

Nell looked confused.

“We have a wee new blessing in our midst, and if we’re to believe Adele’s message, she was sent.” By a small boy with shiny blond curls and mischief in his eyes. Moira looked out in the general direction of her nephew’s cottage, wishing him well in the night. “It isn’t how she got in that matters most-it’s why .”

The old magics were back in Fisher’s Cove-and why mattered. Desperately.

Very gingerly, Marcus slid the sleeping bundle in his arms toward the basket. Three inches to touchdown.

Two…

Hecate’s hells. Brain jarring with the infant’s wails, Marcus snatched her up, none too gently. And swore she stopped mid-howl to grin at him. Brat. It’s a perfectly good basket. One that some helpful soul had left in the middle of his living room floor, presumably to house his uninvited guest. He’d seen Elorie’s babies dozing at Moira’s feet in ones just like it.

The child in his arms was having none of it. Three times now, he’d waited until she was a limp noodle, deep in sleep. And three times, she’d woken, shrieking, a hairsbreadth from success-like she had basket radar.

He stared down at purple eyes, already sinking back into sleepy bliss. And cursed. I’m not standing here holding you all night, girl-child. We grumpy old men need our sleep.

She wasn’t listening. Already he knew the small whiffling sounds that meant she’d gone under, headed to the land of whatever babies dreamed about.

Carefully, he backed over to the big easy chair in the corner-his one furniture purchase since moving into the cottage on the edge of the village. The rest of the cabin had been furnished out of the spare parts trotted over by small children and fishermen. Clearly, no one had trusted him to outfit his own living space.

The sudden yearning for his cliffside home caught him by surprise. No garage finds or mismatched teacups there.

And no mysterious baby girls with knowing eyes and opera-singer lungs.

She stirred as he settled into the easy chair, the neurons of distress lining up in her mind. Desperately, Marcus tried to jiggle her little body in the movement that seemed instinctual to all of womankind.

Her restless wiggles accelerated. Clearly he wasn’t a woman.