Daughter of the Spellcaster Page 8

  He came back to himself when Bahru opened the door and peered in at him. “I think we are both heading in the same direction, Ryan. Perhaps we should travel together.”

  * * *

  Ryan didn’t like Bahru. Didn’t like him and didn’t trust him. But the man was right—Ryan had no intention of letting Lena walk out of his life—and right then, he realized, he needed the graying guru. And Bahru needed something too. A ride.

  There were about twenty big boxes of books—the ones his father had left to Lena—all packed, labeled and ready to be shipped out. Instead, Ryan called U-Haul, had a small truck delivered to his father’s mansion and had the books loaded into it, all within hours of her departure. It was amazing what money and the family name could do.

  Once he’d made his decision to follow her, he didn’t feel like wasting any time. He’d been mulling over the pros and cons from the minute she’d walked out the door. But once he’d set the curtains on fire with what appeared to be a magic knife, well, that tipped the scales. He needed to figure out what the hell was going on, and who better to ask than a self-proclaimed witch? Add that to the fact that she was a few weeks away from making him a father, and that he’d apparently done much too good a job of convincing her that he was the most unsuitable father-to-be on the planet, and he figured he had more reasons to go than to stay.

  In fact, his only reasons not to go were that she apparently didn’t want him to, and that he didn’t exactly relish the idea of Bahru’s company.

  But the damn guru was right, they were both heading in the same direction. And this would make it easier to keep an eye on the con artist.

  Okay, there was more than traveling with Bahru bothering him about this trip. There was this odd thing that felt a lot like fear twisting around in the middle of his chest, but that didn’t make any sense, so he ignored it.

  After the truck was loaded, he went off in search of his bearded nemesis to offer him choice of radio stations in trade for letting him bunk with him in the cottage, just in case Lena refused to let him in. Ryan figured the guesthouse was Bahru’s, lock, stock and doorknob. Lena couldn’t throw him out of that.

  Bahru took him up on the trade—only because he said he was going to offer anyway, and because Ryan swore he wouldn’t be staying more than a day or two.

  It wasn’t entirely untrue. He currently had no idea how long he would be there.

  So they made the long drive together, with what sounded like Bollywood soundtracks playing the entire time. Eventually he turned the volume down to save his own sanity, using the excuse of wanting to talk. He actually did want to talk, he realized as he spoke. He wanted to ask the holy man some pointed questions.

  “So, Bahru, how did all this happen? This—vineyard my father owned, what’s the story?”

  “Havenwood? He never talked to you about it?” Bahru’s expressionless features belied the curiosity in his question.

  “I knew it existed. That was it.” Like Bahru, he didn’t let any emotion show through. But while Ryan knew his detachment was generally perceived by others as coldness, Bahru’s looked more like...serenity. The man was always unflappable, calm. For a long time Ryan had thought it was an act, but he’d never seen so much as a crack in the fabric of it, so if it was fake, then Bahru deserved an Oscar.

  “Your father told me he’d bought the place on a whim, before your mother made her transition.”

  “Made her transition?”

  Bahru nodded. “Back into spirit.”

  “Oh. You mean before she died.”

  “There is no such thing as death, Ryan.”

  Ryan closed his eyes briefly, biting back the sarcastic comments that sprang to his lips. He hadn’t brought the man along looking for spiritual platitudes, but with this guy, every conversation was sprinkled with them, so he supposed he had to put up with it. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t known what he was in for, so he just kept quiet and waited patiently.

  And it paid off. Bahru began speaking again. “Your parents had spent a weekend together at an inn in the area once—an anniversary, I think—and while driving around the countryside they found the vineyard. He bought it, and they planned to move there when he retired.” Bahru sighed, lowering his head. “But when your mother passed, he forgot about those plans. Forgot about the vineyard. Or pretended to. It fell into disrepair. He’d decided to finally let it go just before Lena left us, and then I—I received a strong message that he had held onto it for a reason. That she...belonged there.”

  “Received a message from whom?” Ryan asked.

  Bahru fingered the quartz crystal around his neck. “I do not ask that question. Sometimes things just come. Your father and I had visited Havenwood only a week before, and he had made arrangements to put it on the market. The energy there was very strong. Very strong.”

  “Energy? I don’t know what that means, Bahru.”

  The older man shrugged and ignored the implicit question. “When Lena told us she was leaving, I told your father about my feeling that she should live at Havenwood, and I told Lena about the listing. Your father asked the real estate agent not to reveal that he was the seller, and she bought the place, as I knew she would.”

  “He went along with all that?”

  “He did.” Bahru sighed. “I think he felt it, too—that the timing was too perfect to be coincidental.”

  Ryan lifted his brows. “And the baby? He knew about the baby?”

  “He knew the doctor she saw and he...heard. Unethical, yes, but...your father’s friends were very loyal.”

  “My father didn’t have friends. If that doctor cooperated it was because he was afraid not to. Afraid of my old man’s power.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “And what about him leaving you the guest cottage as part of the deal?”

  Bahru lifted his chin and stared off through the windshield at some empty spot in the distance. “I was led to your father. But not for his sake. He knew that as surely as I did. He was only a guidepost on my way to my true mission.”

  “Your true mission?”

  “Yes. At one time I thought that mission might be you—but now I believe it is your child. Ernst’s grandchild. The baby is my mission.”

  I don’t fucking think so. Ryan cleared his throat. “What is it you think this...mission will entail?”

  Bahru shrugged. “That I cannot say. I haven’t yet been told. But I’ve been guided this far, and I trust I will continue to be led to do what I am meant to do, to be where I am needed, to serve the Whole.”

  “I see.” The hell he did.

  “The closer we get, the stronger the pull,” Bahru said, fingering the crystal again. “It’s beyond anything I’ve felt before.”

  The guy was nuts, maybe even dangerous, Ryan thought. And quite possibly obsessed with his child. He was more convinced than ever that he was doing the right thing by going up there and staying close to this situation. Maybe he could convince Lena to send Bahru packing. It wouldn’t be easy, though. She adored the guy. They were birds of a feather, with all this mysticism and shit. What he did know was that he had to get close, and stay close. He did not trust this nutcase with his baby.

  5

  “You won’t believe what I dug out while you were gone,” Lena’s mother said, after she’d hugged Lena breathless, nudged her into their big, comfy teddy bear of a rocking chair and pressed a cup of herbal tea into her hands.

  The fireplace was snapping and dancing. Lena’s overnight bag was still on the floor just inside the doorway where she’d dropped it when she had come in. Her mom had picked her up at the bus station, and she could barely believe the feeling that had come over her when she’d stepped off that Greyhound. Peace. That was what it was. As they drove back to the house, the tension just seeped out of her with every mile that passed. And by the time she w
alked through the front door, she was almost limp with it.

  It was good to be home. It really was.

  She sipped the tea, heeling off her shoes and relaxing into the chair’s bear-hug cushions. “What did you dig out?”

  Grinning and sappy-eyed, Selma went to a cardboard box on the coffee table and pulled out a stack of books. Not real books. These books had construction-paper covers in full Crayola color. Their bindings varied from staples to masking tape, depending on what had been available at the time. Selma set the whole stack of them on her lap, and Lena smiled as she looked through the stories she’d created when she had been seven or eight years old. There were a dozen or so, all based on her little-girl fantasies.

  Lena and the Prince Meet the Littlest Slave Girl

  Lena and the Prince Find a Magic Cup and Knife

  Lena and the Prince Meet the Evil Bad Guy

  Lena and the Prince and Lena’s Two Sisters

  Lena and the Prince Get Lost in the Desert

  Lena and the Prince and the Kiss in the Garden

  She sighed, remembering every story. They’d seemed real to her.

  “When you first met Ryan, you were so sure he was that prince you used to daydream about,” Selma said softly.

  “Well, it’s obvious, Mom,” she told her, holding one of the flimsy volumes toward her, face out. “Can’t you see the resemblance?”

  Selma laughed. “Identical. Clearly it has to be him.” But her smile died slowly. “You’ve had some time and distance, Lena. Do you still believe he’s the one?”

  “Yeah. I do.” Lena drew a breath, sighed and set the stack of books beside her chair. “I need to get out of these clothes, put on something cozy. Do you mind if we catch up later?”

  “Of course not. I made you an overly indulgent dinner. Comfort food. I’ll warm it up whenever you’re ready. Okay?”

  “Just what I need. Thanks, Mom.”

  Lena took a long, steamy shower and then put on her most comfy nightgown, a soft flannel “granny gown” with three-quarter-length sleeves and flowers embroidered down the front alongside the buttons. Her slippers were warm and cozy, and her robe felt like a blanket around her shoulders. But she didn’t go downstairs when she finished getting dressed. Instead she sat down in their temple room—the place had five bedrooms, so there was still one left for the baby and one for guests—and took that magical chalice out of its beautiful box.

  She went to the antique Shaker cabinet that stood in the corner, opened its doors and took out the big jug of witches’ holy water she and her mother had made last full moon. She didn’t worry about exposing it to sunlight, as it was already dark outside. After filling the chalice and leaving the jug where it was, she placed the chalice on the floor in the middle of the room. She sat down beside it and relaxed herself into a magical state. Entering that nearly hypnotic place was one of the most powerful skills a witch possessed. Newbies took their time about it, going through various mental exercises and breathing techniques, maybe mixing in some yoga, to get there. But for a born-and-raised witch like Lena, it was a process that took all of about three seconds.

  She opened her eyes and gazed into the chalice, letting her vision go slightly out of focus so she wasn’t looking at the water, but rather at some uncertain point beyond it. The surface of the holy water got all misty, like fog, and she relaxed her eyes. Then the mists started to clear, and images began rippling into and out of existence in the water.

  She saw the shape of a man, and glimpsed dreadlocked hair and a beard. Bahru. A red flash in his eyes, just like she’d glimpsed in Ernst McNally’s den. What the hell was that? The image was there and gone just that fast, then the mists took the shape of another man. Ryan. She recognized him immediately. And then he changed shape and another form took his place in the cup—a dark shadow, shaped only vaguely like a man. Lena got chills up her spine when she saw that shape, and the baby inside her kicked frantically, almost jarring her out of her trancelike focus.

  She rested her palms on her belly. “Hush, little one. It’s all right.”

  No, it’s not, her mind whispered.

  Her attention returned to the shifting images in the chalice. She saw a woman there now. A beautiful woman whose face stayed the same even while her hair rippled from jet to corn silk, her eyes from ebony to robin’s egg, her complexion from sun-bronzed to china-white. Her lips moved, and the vision became audible.

  Your baby is in danger, Magdalena. And so are you.

  Before she could even frown at that completely familiar face, the waters in the chalice began to swirl, forming a whirlpool that grew bigger, emerging from the cup and rising toward her, until it sucked her right inside. She was spinning, whirling, dizzy, and somehow breathing as the water swallowed her up and then spat her out again.

  She was lying on the ground. It was hard, stone, and hot to the touch.

  “Get up.”

  It was a man’s voice, and he was speaking in another language, but Lena understood it perfectly as she got to her feet. Then she looked down at her body and went cold in shock.

  She was...someone else. She was bronze-skinned and slender. Her baby bump was gone. But not, she somehow knew, the baby. The sight of her flat belly stunned her when she glimpsed it between the scrap of silky sheer fabric knotted at her hip and the matching scrap that covered her breasts. An icy shiver of panic shot through her as the man grabbed her arms, which were bound behind her back.

  “What is this?” she demanded, and the words emerged in that same, exotic tongue she did not, could not, know. “What are you doing?”

  “Take hold of yourself, Magdalena,” said a woman.

  A woman dressed—and bound—just like her. The woman from the chalice. Lilia.

  “There is no end to love,” Lilia whispered, and her eyes were full of the emotion she spoke of. “Remember what we must do. We cannot cross the veil until it is done.”

  “We can do this,” whispered another voice, and Lena turned to see another woman standing on the other side of her, dressed the same, bound the same, and just as beautiful. Indira, someone whispered in her mind.

  “There’s no such thing as death,” Indira said. “We have nothing to fear.”

  Lena’s field of view widened. She’d been seeing only what was close to her, as if she were caught in some sort of hazy vignette. But now she saw everything. The desert, far in the distance, a city glittering like a jewel beyond it, and closer, right at her feet, the very edge of the cliff on which she stood and the dizzying distance to the rocks below.

  And she felt the hands of the soldiers at her back.

  “I don’t understand,” she whispered. “What’s happening?”

  The other two women edged closer, so close that she felt the heat of their smooth skin pressing against hers, shoulder-to-shoulder. “We will triumph, my sister,” said Lilia. “These murderers have not seen the last of Indira, Lilia and Magdalena.”

  The hands at her back pushed, and Lena screamed. The last thing she saw as she plummeted downward, the wind burning past her ears and pulling her hair, was a lone horseman galloping on a white stallion across the desert toward them.

  My prince was coming to save me, she thought, but he was too late.

  * * *

  Ryan pulled the rented moving truck into the washboard-like dirt driveway, and brought it to a stop outside the farmhouse. It was a big old house, emphasis on old, and he figured it was probably supposed to be white. “Dad bought this?”

  Bahru nodded. “Don’t let its appearance mislead. It is solid, the roof, wiring, heating system and plumbing are all completely new. He was having it restored a little at a time.”

  “Why didn’t he have it painted, or sided or landscaped or—”

  “He intended to do the cosmetic things himself. He and your mother.”


  “But he dropped those plans when she died.”

  Bahru nodded, but he was staring at the house. Ryan followed his gaze to an upstairs window, but aside from a brief shadow beyond the glass, which he thought was just an optical illusion, he saw nothing worthy of interest.

  He opened the door of the truck, stepped down and walked over the driveway, which had bits of snow here and there, up the front steps and across the front porch. He could see it was solid, just as Bahru had described. He was almost to the door when he started getting cold feet. After all, he had no reason to anticipate a warm welcome. He turned to see what was taking the guru so long and saw that Bahru was already trekking along the driveway where it forked off and led to the little guesthouse in the distance, a small drawstring bag over one shoulder, along with his green canvas satchel. That was all he’d brought. Ryan noticed that he’d traded his sandals for a pair of cloth moccasin-like shoes that could have been made this year or last century. No way to tell. At least he wasn’t barefoot in the snow.

  Straightening his spine, Ryan lifted his hand to knock on the door and heard a scream. Lena!

  He opened the door and lunged into the house before he even thought about it and was just in time to catch a glimpse of Lena’s mother running up the stairs to the second floor. He didn’t hesitate. He raced up the stairs and down the hall behind Selma, his heart in his throat when the two of them burst through a bedroom door and stumbled to a stop inside what was not a bedroom.

  It was some kind of witchcraft den, and Lena was lying on the floor with her eyes closed, her belly so huge it made him blink and look again. Her head was rolling back and forth, her arms and legs twitching. He dropped to his knees next to her as Selma did the same on the other side.

  “Lena,” Ryan said, sliding one hand under her neck, cradling her nape to try to keep her head from thrashing back and forth. “Lena, can you hear me? Are you all right?”

  She moaned, and Ryan looked up and met Selma’s eyes. “Call 9-1-1,” he told her.

  “I’ll do better than that.” She got up, turning to run out of the room, but as she passed, she reached down to squeeze his shoulder. “I’m really glad you’re here, Ryan.”