Debora Geary: A Nomadic Witch

A Modern Witch Series: Book 4

Copyright 2012 Debora Geary

Spring had come to Nova Scotia, and with it, the consequences of last summer’s bout of contagious fertility. There were babies everywhere.

Which was why escape had been essential. A few hours of uninterrupted peace, under one of the first brilliantly blue skies of the year. A man, his fishing boat, and the open ocean. Perfection.

Unfortunately, it didn’t appear that he was alone.

Marcus looked over at the cargo closet of his fishing trawler. It was fairly embarrassing to have a stowaway, especially when you were a mind witch with a reputation for being inhospitable. “You’ll freeze if you stay in there all day.” Cargo closets weren’t very dry places this time of year.

Total silence.

The boy had been watching too many pirate movies. “The worst I’ll do is make you swab the decks.” Probably. Marcus shoved the friendliest mind-vibe he could manage in Sean’s direction.

Another minute of silence, and then some scuffling. A couple of surprisingly eloquent curses later, a somewhat bedraggled eleven-year-old emerged from the closet, wet to his waist.

Marcus grinned. Sometimes karma had an excellent sense of humor. “Fell into a bucket, did you?”

Sean scowled. “It’s dark in there.”

There were several other boats still in sight. Marcus aimed away from the good fishing-it wasn’t sea creatures he was after. “You might as well bring that bucket out with you.” The decks could certainly use a good scrubbing, and Sean usually had energy to burn.

His stowaway grinned. “Can I sing pirate songs while I work?”

Marcus growled and stared out to sea, amused in spite of himself. Apparently he was doomed to child-sized company of some sort today, but at least this one wasn’t still in diapers. “Where’s Kevin?” Generally the twins traveled together.

“Babysitting for Elorie. Gran says he has the touch.”

Marcus grinned at the boy’s tone-apparently Sean shared his general distaste for wailing babies. Or maybe it was a little more complicated than that. A trickle of unhappiness swirled at the back of Sean’s mind even as he got out the mop and bucket.

Sigh. A whole village full of meddling amateur psychologists, and the boy had come to him. They all seemed to come to him-hardly a day passed that small footsteps of one sort or another didn’t invade his new cottage. Renting one on the outskirts of Fisher’s Cove hadn’t dissuaded them in the slightest.

If it wasn’t Lizzie, Sean, or Kevin, or someone looking to pawn off a fretful baby, it was Aervyn, porting in for a visit.

Almost as if there were a conspiracy afoot.

Marcus tucked that idea away for further contemplation. Sophie and Moira were more than capable of harnessing an army of pint-sized minions in their quest to upend his life.

And so far they’d been very successful at keeping him sucked into the village, far away from his remote and very child-free cliffside home.

“Can I steer?” Small hands reached for the wheel, and a still-wet boy threatened to crawl into his lap. Marcus vacated his stool and activated a small wind funnel. It wasn’t nearly as pleasant as a quick-dry spell, but neither of them were fire witches, and Sean could hardly hang around in wet pants all day.

Spring in Fisher’s Cove wasn’t that warm.

“Don’t hit a rock.” There weren’t a lot of things to crash into in open waters, but Sean had a knack for finding trouble.

The boy sprang up onto the stool, at home anywhere on a boat. “You’re going the wrong way for herring. Uncle Jonathan said they’re running better over by-”

“I’m not fishing today.” Or most any other day, but Marcus wasn’t about to try to explain why he owned a fishing boat that rarely on-boarded an actual fish.

“Okay.” Sean leaned over the wheel, eyes sparkling. “Can we race, then?”

The air caught in Marcus’s throat. There had been another, much smaller boy who had loved racing the wind.

He and Evan had been the mighty storm-witch duo, pushing their father’s fishing boat over the waters and scattering fish every which way. No one had ever minded-Evan’s sunny laughter had been impossible to resist.

Even then, Marcus had been the dark, quiet one.

And Evan had raced into astral danger with the same glee in his eyes. Marcus had watched, screaming, as his twin danced his way into the lethal magic mists of astral travel alone and unafraid. And never come back.

“We’re not racing today.” Marcus heard the harshness in his voice and watched Sean’s face crumple. Damn. He just wasn’t good with kids-of any size.

He patted the boy’s knee in mute, awkward apology. It was a sunny day-no mists to be seen. “You dry enough yet?”

“Yeah.” Sean hopped off the stool, subdued. “I’ll go finish mopping the decks now.”

Marcus waited until he was out of sight, and then slammed his hands down on the wheel. He’d just needed an afternoon alone-a few short hours away from cute babies and bright eyes and happy laughter and feeling like the killjoy of Fisher’s Cove.

A few hours to sit alone with the hole in his heart that never seemed to heal.

But life seemed to have a way of making sure he didn’t get what he wanted.

Nell crash-landed on a couch in the Witches’ Lounge and took a deep breath. Sanity. Maybe.

Moira chuckled from her armchair and held out a plate. “Cookie, my dear? Looks like you’ve had a bit of a rough day.”

Nell took three-she’d earned them. “Aervyn’s doing his best imitation of a spoiled brat. I dumped him with Jamie and ran for the hills.“

“It’s hard for him.” Moira slid over a cup of tea to go along with the cookies. “Kenna’s stolen a bit of his thunder with all her magic tricks. It’s not easy being upstaged by a wee babe.”

The wee babe in question had tried to pull the moon down so she could take a closer look-and had caused enough tidal tremors to keep every weather witch in Berkeley very busy for two days. Including Aervyn, which was at least part of why he’d unleashed a class-four temper tantrum right before breakfast.

Nell sighed and picked up her tea. “I guess all kids go through this with a new sibling.” Technically Kenna was Aervyn’s cousin, but in Witch Central, that was a very loose distinction. “He threatened to send her to the moon yesterday if she wanted to see it so badly.”

It scared her silly that he might be able to do it.

“He’s had five years to be the baby.” Moira smiled. “I believe you were only a little older when you threatened to mail Jamie, Devin, and Matt to an orphanage in China.”

Nell grinned-according to family legend, she’d punched air holes in a refrigerator box and addressed it in impeccable seven-year-old spelling. It had taken her mother a week to stop laughing and at least a decade to get rid of the cardboard box.

Nell had regretted not mailing her brothers off more than once in the past thirty years, but she took Moira’s point. “Take away the magic, and he’s just having a normal reaction to a new baby.”