Daughter of the Spellcaster Read online

  Anything for their child…

  Lena Dunkirk is a practicing witch, Ryan McNally a wealthy playboy. Logic says mismatch, yet from the first they share a passion that defies reason, as if they know each other from another place, another time. Then Lena gets pregnant and runs for the safety of home.

  Months later, when Ryan appears at her door looking to help raise their child, Lena doesn’t know whom to trust—particularly now that “guru to the stars” Bahru has taken an interest in her baby, offering gifts forged of magic.

  Soon she and Ryan are sharing eerie dreams of ancient lands, while a vengeful demon plots to take possession of their child. As the moment of birth approaches, the demon’s power rises, forcing the hand of love to wield the blade that will decide the fate of a child’s soul—and the future of the world.

  Praise for the novels of Maggie Shayne

  “Shayne crafts a convincing world, tweaking vampire legends just enough to draw fresh blood.”

  —Publishers Weekly on Demon’s Kiss

  “This story will have readers on the edge of their seats and begging for more.”

  —RT Book Reviews on Twilight Fulfilled

  “A tasty, tension-packed read.”

  —Publishers Weekly on Thicker than Water

  “Tense…frightening…a page-turner in the best sense.”

  —RT Book Reviews on Colder than Ice

  “Mystery and danger abound in Darker than Midnight, a fast-paced, chilling thrill read that will keep readers turning the pages long after bedtime….Suspense, mystery, danger and passion—no one does them better than Maggie Shayne.”

  —Romance Reviews Today on Darker than Midnight [winner of a Perfect 10 award]

  “Maggie Shayne is better than chocolate. She satisfies every wicked craving.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Suzanne Forster

  “Shayne’s haunting tale is intricately woven….A moving mix of high suspense and romance, this haunting Halloween thriller will propel readers to bolt their doors at night.”

  —Publishers Weekly on The Gingerbread Man

  “[A] gripping story of small-town secrets. The suspense will keep you guessing. The characters will steal your heart.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Lisa Gardner on The Gingerbread Man

  Kiss of the Shadow Man is a “crackerjack novel of romantic suspense.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  Also by Maggie Shayne

  The Portal

  MARK OF THE WITCH

  Secrets of Shadow Falls

  KISS ME, KILL ME

  KILL ME AGAIN

  KILLING ME SOFTLY

  BLOODLINE

  ANGEL’S PAIN

  LOVER’S BITE

  DEMON’S KISS

  Wings in the Night

  BLUE TWILIGHT

  BEFORE BLUE TWILIGHT

  EDGE OF TWILIGHT

  RUN FROM TWILIGHT

  EMBRACE THE TWILIGHT

  TWILIGHT HUNGER

  TWILIGHT VOWS

  BORN IN TWILIGHT

  BEYOND TWILIGHT

  TWILIGHT ILLUSIONS

  TWILIGHT MEMORIES

  TWILIGHT PHANTASIES

  DARKER THAN MIDNIGHT

  COLDER THAN ICE

  THICKER THAN WATER

  Look for Maggie Shayne’s next novel

  BLOOD OF THE SORCERESS

  available February 2013

  For Michele, Gayle, Chris, Laurie,

  Ginny and Theresa. Whoever said that

  writing is a solitary profession never attended one of our loud,

  laughter-filled, munchy-fest plotting sessions!

  What fun would this stuff be if we had to do it alone?

  Love you all!

  Contents

  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

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Prologue

  In her tiny hand she held the vial of mugwort over her steaming cauldron and carefully let three drops escape. No more, no less. Then she looked up at her mom and smiled.

  Mamma nodded her approval but didn’t let little Magdalena bask in it for very long. “Now the eyebright. Just a pinch.”

  Lena set the vial aside and picked up the old brown crockery jar with the dried herb inside. She plucked out a pinch and dropped it into the squat iron pot.

  A little more, said Lilia. You have tiny fingers, after all.

  She didn’t say it out loud, of course. She spoke from inside Lena’s head. Though her mom called Lilia an imaginary friend, to Lena she was a big sister and very real, even though no one—except Lena herself—could see her. No one else ever had. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t real.

  Lena grabbed another pinch and popped it into the bubbling brew, eliciting a satisfying hiss from the pot.

  Mamma frowned at her. “How did you know to add a little more?”

  “Lilia told me to,” Lena explained.

  “Ahh. All right, then.”

  Mamma didn’t mean it, though. She didn’t believe in Lilia. Magic, yes. Witchcraft, most certainly. But not Lilia. Grown-ups could be so odd sometimes.

  Aside from that, her mom was the best grown-up Lena knew. She was beautiful, first off. The prettiest mom in the whole town. And she didn’t wear jeans like the other moms. She wore flowing dresses—she called them captains. No, wait. Kaftans—in bright oranges and yellows and reds, and sometimes deep blues and greens. And big glittery jewelry that she made herself. And she knew all about magic. So much that other witches were always asking her about stuff.

  And she loved Lena more than the whole wide world. And Lena loved her back. So with all of that, it wasn’t so bad that she didn’t believe in Lilia. And anyway, she never came right out and said it. Just said she was “keeping an open mind,” whatever that meant.

  Lena took the wooden spoon and gave her mixture a stir, leaning over to sniff the steam. She had insisted on a drop of dragon’s blood—not from a real dragon, of course—as she did in almost all her potions. She loved the smell, and it always felt like a kick of extra power to her.

  Her mom, who’d been a witch since she’d been in college, which was a long time ago, had taught Lena to trust her instincts.

  They let the cauldron simmer for exactly thirteen minutes, then Lena blew out the candle that was heating it from underneath its three long legs and let things cool for thirteen more. Then she dipped a soft cotton ball into the concoction and used it to wash Mamma’s magic mirror.

  It was Samhain, the perfect time for divination, and her mom wanted to teach her how to scry. Lilia had said it would be easy and promised to help.

  Once the black mirror was all gleaming and wet with the potion, Mamma placed it in a stand, the kind you would use to display a special plate, and turned Lena’s chair so that she could look directly into it.

  “Now you probably think you’re supposed to look at the mirror. But you’re not, really,” Mamma said. “Just let your eyes go so
rt of sleepy. Let them be aimed at the mirror but not really looking at it. It takes time and practice, Lena, but eventually you’ll—”

  “Something’s happening!”

  Mamma blinked at her in that way she had. Lena didn’t see her do it, but she knew. “What’s happening, Lena?”

  “It’s all...foggy.”

  “Good. Just relax and see if the fog starts to clear.”

  “Oh, look!” Lena pointed at the images that were playing out in the mirror as clearly as a movie on TV.

  “I can’t see what you’re seeing, Lena. Tell me about it as it unfolds.”

  She thought she heard a little bit of doubt in her mom’s voice. Sometimes, Lena knew, her mom thought she was making things up, or at least stretching them out with what she called her turbo-charged imagination. But she was seeing that stuff in that mirror. Not in her imagination. But for real.

  Go on, tell her what you see, Lilia whispered.

  “There are three girls, all dressed up like Jasmine from Aladdin. Hey, I think one of them is Lilia. It is! It’s Lilia!”

  “Your imaginary friend?” Mamma asked.

  “Yes! Oh, my goodness, that one is me. Only...way different. I’m all grown up in there. And my hair isn’t red like now. It’s black.” Lena giggled. “I’ve got boobies.”

  “What am I ever going to do with you, witchling?” Lena could hear the smile in her mom’s voice, but she couldn’t look to see it for herself. She just couldn’t take her eyes off of the images in the mirror.

  “It’s getting dark, and I’m sneaking out. Gosh, look where I live. It’s like on that show, I Dreamed about Jennie?”

  “I Dream of Jeannie.”

  “Yeah. You know, how it looks inside Jeannie’s bottle? It’s like that.”

  “Makes sense. You said you looked like Jasmine.”

  “Oh, and there’s a boy. A man, I mean. A prince! A handsome prince. Just like in one of my books.” She frowned, then blinked hard. “Oh, no.”

  “What, baby?”

  “I’m crying. He’s going away. But he says he’s coming back for me soon, and that we’ll live happily ever after. Oh, and he’s kissing me like in a grown-up movie!”

  “I think that might be enough for now, Lena.”

  One more thing, Lilia whispered.

  “Wait, Mom. There’s one more thing.” Lena blinked and relaxed back in her chair, because the fog had returned. It cleared again, though, and she leaned forward and stared eagerly, but then she sighed. “It’s just a cup. It’s just a stupid cup. Not a story. Just a cup.”

  “What does it look like?” Mamma asked.

  “Fancy. Silver, with jewels all over it.”

  “Sounds like a chalice.”

  “As the chalice is to Alice,” Lena chirped. It was a secret joke just between the two of them. See, there was this thing in witchcraft called the Great Rite. In it, a witch lowered her athame—that was a fancy knife—into a chalice. She was supposed to say “As the rod is to the God, so the chalice is to the Goddess.” It never made much sense to Lena, though her mom said it would when she got older. It was supposed to be a powerful rite, one of the most powerful in the Craft, and it was done right at the beginning of every ritual.

  Lena had once commented that “As the rod is to the God” rhymed, so the second line should, too. And then she changed it to “So the chalice is to Alice.”

  Some witches got really mad over that, so she wasn’t allowed to say it in front of them anymore. Mom said some witches just had no sense of humor at all, but that she thought the Goddess would find it funny as hell.

  That was just the way she said it, too. “Funny as hell.”

  “Lena,” Mamma prompted.

  Lena was still staring at the cup in the mirror. “It kinda feels like I’ve seen it before, Mom, but I don’t know where.”

  Then the fog returned, and in a second the mirror was just a black mirror again. She sighed and lifted her gaze to her mom. “Did I do all right?”

  Mamma looked a little worried. “You did great, honey. I’m very surprised. Most people try for weeks and weeks before they can see anything in the mirror. And then it’s usually shapes in the mist, maybe an image or two, but not a major motion picture.”

  “It’s ’cause I’m so young,” Lena explained to her. “Grown-ups have spent too much time forgetting how to believe in magic. I haven’t forgotten yet. That’s what Lilia told me.” She frowned and lowered her eyes, a sad feeling kind of squeezing her heart. “My prince never came back, though. At least, I don’t think so.”

  He will, darling. He’ll come back to you, just at the right time. And so will the chalice. You’ll see. And the curse will be broken, and everything will be right again.

  “What curse?” Lena asked Lilia very softly.

  But Lilia only smiled softly before disappearing.

  1

  Twenty years later

  Magdalena Dunkirk waddled to the front door of her blissful, peaceful home outside Ithaca, New York, with one hand atop her watermelon-sized belly. “I’m coming!” she called. It took her longer to get around these days, and her mother was out running a few errands.

  They didn’t get a lot of company. They’d only been living at the abandoned vineyard known as Havenwood, on the southern tip of Cayuga Lake, for a little over six months, and aside from their nearest neighbor, Patrick Cartwright, a kind curmudgeon who was also a retired doctor, and the two middle-aged, strictly in-the-broom-closet witches her mom hung out with, they barely knew anyone. Then again, she and her mother tended to keep to themselves. Lena liked it that way.

  She got to the big oak door and opened it to see the last person she would have expected. Okay, the second-to-last person. Waist-length dreadlocks—both hair and beard—a red-and-white sari, and sad brown eyes staring into hers. She met them for only a moment, then looked past the guru for his ever-present companion. But Bahru was alone. Only a black car stood beyond him in the curving, snow-covered drive. “Where’s Ernst?” she asked.

  “Your baby’s grandfather has gone beyond the veil, Magdalena.”

  Ernst? Dead? It didn’t seem possible. Lena closed her eyes, lowered her head. “How?”

  “He died in his sleep last night. I wanted to tell you before you heard it on the news.”

  Blinking back tears, she opened the door wider. A wintry breeze blew in, causing the conch shell chimes to clatter and clack. “Come in, Bahru.”

  He shook his head slowly. “No time. It’s a long drive back.”

  She blinked at him. He was eccentric, yes. Obviously. But... “You drove all the way out here just to tell me Ryan’s father is dead, and now you’re going to turn around and drive all the way back? You could have told me with a phone call, Bahru.”

  “Yes. But...” He shrugged a bag from his shoulder. It was olive drab, made of canvas, with a buckle and a flap, which he unfastened and opened. “He wanted you to have this,” he said.

  Lena watched, wishing he would come inside and let her shut the door but not wanting to be rude and tell him so. So she stood there, holding it open and letting the heat out into the late January cold, and watching as he pulled an elaborately carved wooden box from the bag.

  It caught her eye, because it looked old. And sort of...mystical. It was smaller than a shoe box, heavy and hinged, with a small latch on the front. As she took it from him, he went on. “Of course there will be more. I came to tell you that, too. You must come back to New York City, Lena. You and the child are named in his will.”

  She looked up from the box sharply and shook her head. “That’s sweet of him, but I don’t want his money. I never did. I won’t—I can’t take it, you know that, Bahru. It would just convince Ryan that everything he ever thought about me was true.” She clutched the box in her hands, her heart
tripping over itself. Maybe because she’d said Ryan’s name twice in the past two minutes after not uttering it once in more than six months. “How is he taking his dad’s death?”

  “As if he doesn’t care.”

  “He cares. I know he does. He’s angry with his father, has been since his mother died, but he loves him.” God, it was a crying shame he’d never gotten around to telling his father so. She wondered what would happen to the businesses, the empire Ernst had built, since his only son wanted no part of any of it.

  Bahru said nothing for a long moment. He just stood there, fingering a crystal prism that hung from a chain around his neck. Lena noticed it because she was into crystals—so was her mom—and because Bahru always wore exactly the same things. Same robes, just with an extra white wrap over top in colder months. Same shoes, the faux leather moccasin-style slippers in winter and the sandals Mom called “Jesus shoes” in the summer. Same green canvas bag over his shoulder everywhere he went. The crystal pendant was new. Different. She’d never seen him wear jewelry before.

  “Will you come?” he asked at length.

  Lena pushed a long auburn spiral behind her ear. “Ryan still doesn’t know about...about the baby, does he?” she asked, looking down at her belly, which made the tie-dyed hemp maternity dress Mom had made for her look like a dome tent lying on its side. She wore a fringed shawl over it, because the dress was sleeveless and the old house was drafty. And haunted, but you know, being witches, they considered that a plus.

  Bahru smiled very slightly. “He does not know. He still has no idea why you left. But he will guess when he sees you. You knew you would have to face that eventually, though.”

  She nodded. She didn’t believe in lying and had no intention of keeping Ryan out of their child’s life. She just kept putting off telling him, feeling unready to face him with the truth when she knew what he would think. And now... Well, now it looked as if she had no choice.

  “I really wish I’d told him sooner. He doesn’t need this to deal with on top of everything else.”

  “Perhaps the distraction will be welcome.”

  She lifted her brows. “Well, it’ll distract him, all right. But it’ll be welcome news about the same time pigs fly.”