A Nomadic Witch (A Modern Witch Series: Book 4) Page 15

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  Building towers was exhausting, even if you had fairly unlimited magic at your disposal.

  Marcus walked a quiet hillside overlooking Realm, a transport cube in his pocket. Morgan was asleep in her new castle, and there was a bevy of tired coders eating in the main hall.

  He’d needed peace more than food—and real warriors didn’t eat pizza.

  A wisp of long-forgotten memory tickled his mind. Evan, disgruntled in his Superman cloak and very wet pants, insisting that warriors didn’t eat turnips. Or maybe they’d been pirates that day—the cape and wet pants weren’t much of a clue.

  Mom had laughed—and made them eat the turnips anyhow. Five-year-old warrior pirates just didn’t have that much pull in Fisher’s Cove, no matter how big and fierce they thought themselves.

  Evan would have loved the many battles of Realm. Hell—he’d have been leading most of the charges.

  Marcus stopped, the twisting in his gut all too familiar. There was a reason he left those memories buried in the sludge of time. It did him no good to remember.

  Scaredy witch.

  Evan’s favorite taunt. Marcus scowled as the words floated up in his head. I’m not five anymore. And any old memories that thought he might be could just go back into the moldy boxes of his brain. He had a very adult problem to solve, and thoughts of pirates and turnips were hardly going to help.

  Turnips still suck.

  Great. Now the moldy boxes were trying to have a conversation. Turnips are good for you. As were any number of other vegetables that most witches turned up their noses at. Magic can’t be powered on cookies alone.

  You sound like Mom.

  Yes, he did. And that was a sad commentary on the inner workings of his mind. How about we get off the topic of turnips, hmm? If he had to have a conversation with himself, there had to be a whole universe of more interesting topics.

  Kissed a girl yet?

  Marcus stopped dead, fist ready to punch his brother in the nose—before he remembered he was forty-three years too late. Hecate’s hells, what had been in the healer goo? His head had enough to do without imaginary figments of Evan.

  Kissing’s fun.

  Marcus snorted. The last thing you kissed was a dead fish. On a dare—one that had somehow managed to include both of them. The genius idea of Mary Margaret Higgins, age seven. You killed my dating life forever.

  It seemed wrong that his own head thought that hysterically funny.

  You didn’t stick around long enough to end up being the teenage boy who once kissed a fish. Mary Margaret’s memory had been very long.

  She’s waking up.

  That made no sense—until the transport spellcube in his pocket activated.

  Morgan was awake. And it was long past time to leave memories of turnips and fish-faced girls well enough alone.

  ~ ~ ~

  Nell climbed into the hot pool and smiled at its three occupants. “I’m getting really used to this.” Hopping on a transport spell and beaming across the continent had become an everyday occurrence.

  And one she treasured, especially when there was a hot soak and good company at the other end.

  Sophie slid over and patted a rock. “We sent all the witchlings to the beach with chocolate cake and told them not to come back for at least an hour.”

  Nell smiled at Elorie, lounging in relaxed bliss over in the corner. “Got five minutes away from your babies, did you?” Moms of multiples didn’t get very many of those.

  “They’re napping in Realm.” Elorie opened one eye. “All the babies are. Five of them, lined up in little bassinets.”

  That was news, and a miracle of fairly major proportions. “Kenna too?”

  “Even Adam fell asleep.” Sophie shook her head, laughing softly. “Whatever Marcus did, I hope he can repeat it.”

  Marcus Buchanan, baby whisperer. It was entirely possible the end of the world was near. “I hear he made a really big mess of Realm.” With her trio of daughters as his happy minions.

  “He did. I wanted to help.” Elorie sounded halfway to nap land herself. “But it was mostly coding they were doing.”

  Coding wasn’t Elorie’s forte. She had the much rarer skill of effectively herding witches. “You’ve harnessed the forces of Net magic—Marcus only tapped into what you’ve already created.” Nell grinned and reached for a sandwich. “He lacks your organizational skills, however.”

  “So I heard.” The corners of Elorie’s mouth turned up. “I sent Aaron to supervise the kitchen. Apparently Marcus’s castle staff isn’t used to company.”

  Sophie chuckled quietly. “I believe it was Mia and Shay who coded his new staff. Their attire was rather… purple.”

  That much she’d heard. Jamie had checked in while cheerfully de-spelling the new moats of alligators and fire-breathing dragons—her youngest son had gotten a tad overenthusiastic.

  The real reason for Jamie’s call, however, had been to report on the part that had Realm abuzz—Marcus had been seen smiling. More than once. “Sounds like everyone was more than happy to help.” Ever since the creation of Moira’s Meadow, Realm had been far more than a game—much to the delight of its player legions.

  “It was a very nice bit of magic,” said Moira, moving slowly around the pool refilling tea cups. “Morgan has a delightful castle now, and Ginia did a beautiful job with the warding, mixing new magics and old.”

  That was an interesting tidbit—Moira was the protector guardian of ancient warding spells. Jamie had also passed on a visual of the new castle gardens—resplendent in cornflowers, lavender, and a host of other things Nell hadn’t recognized. She was pretty sure the choices weren’t accidental. “I hear you directed the planting crew.”

  “Not exactly.” Sophie snorted. “She threw us all out and got down on her hands and knees.” She eyed the older woman with interest. “I had no idea you had that many game points stashed away.”

  “Mmm.” Moira set down the teapot and sat on a comfortable rock ledge. “I’ve been doing some trading with the new arrivals.”

  Nell grinned—she and Jamie had been watching their oldest player’s strategy with interest. New arrivals to the witch-only levels generally had game points to burn—and little or no magic stash. “You’ve been very generous.” In Realm, Moira had strong magic, and she dispensed it with the open heart and canny mind she showed in real life. A few more months for the new players to build strength, and their loyalty to the sweet old lady was going to be a real force to be reckoned with.

  The old lady in question chuckled and sipped her tea. “Someone has to keep that daughter of yours on her toes.”

  “You’re doing that. I ran amuck of one of your Irish blessing spells the other day.” Sophie rolled her eyes. “It took half an hour and most of my spellcube stash to get out.”

  “Well, then.” Moira sniffed primly, but her eyes twinkled. “Clearly you were somewhere you weren’t meant to be. Irish blessings read your heart and behave accordingly.”

  Nell hadn’t taken that close a look at the spells Moira had been peddling. Irish blessings were almost all ancient warding spells—and the old magics had some tricky layers. “You’ve figured out how to Net magic a blessing?”

  “Aye.” Moira’s eyes were serious now. “It started as a wee idea for the game, but I’m glad of it now. Ginia wove some of them into the barriers around Morgan’s castle. She’s a talented spell weaver, your girl. Takes after her mama.”

  Nell blinked. “Ginia’s a spellcaster?”

  “Not in the classic sense.” Sophie shook her head and smiled over at Elorie, who had quietly fallen asleep, her head pillowed on a convenient rock. “But just like you weave elemental powers together to cast, Ginia’s got a nice hand with threading Net magic into much older spells.”

  She’d missed an awful lot driving Nathan to baseball camp. “It sounds like Morgan is well protected.”

  “As well as the best magic and programming in Realm can make her,” said Sophie, quietly fanning her ha
nds through the water. “And word’s gone out to keep any suspected travelers far away from water.”

  Nell suspected it was the quietly snoring Elorie who had taken care of that little detail. She frowned, unsure if it was mind power or mama intuition—but another detail was tickling the back of her skull. She frowned, trying to tease out the mental feather. Something about Ginia and spellweaving… “Why use the old magics for the Realm warding? Wouldn’t those be the trickiest to weave with Net power?” Magics had affinities—and old and new seemed like they would be an unstable fit.

  “Traveling is old magic.” Moira watched the light fog rising from the water’s surface. “The very oldest, if what we remember from the mists of time is true.”

  Now the feather tickled more strongly. “So we need the old wards to keep away the old magic?”

  “I believe so.” Old eyes hazed. “I’ve been having dreams. Sparkly rocks and moondust. Signs of ancient portent.”

  Sophie frowned. “You scattered shiny pebbles in Morgan’s garden. Sean brought a whole collection of them.”

  “I did.” Moira held her teacup close. “They belonged there—my bones knew.”

  Nell felt an odd shiver move through her. The wise and difficult magic of the crone always made her feel weird. Mama intuition on steroids.

  And the rock thing was a little strange, given her second mission of the afternoon. “I hope Sean didn’t take all of them—Jamie wants some for Aervyn’s training.”

  Moira chuckled softly, her eyes back to their normal cheery twinkle. “They aren’t always portents—witches have a simple affection for shiny things, too. I believe our beach can spare a few more.”

  Nell leaned back into the warm waters. She’d get on that—right after her muscles melted a little more.

  ~ ~ ~

  Marcus looked down in disgust. “Lost another one, did you?” Pretty soon all of Fisher’s Cove was going to be carpeted in Morgan’s lost socks. Even Moira’s hand-knit booties didn’t stand a chance—his girl was a sock Houdini.

  His girl.

  Gods. She flattened him. All it took was a smile, one of her patented trucker burps, or a missing sock.

  And she carried a talent with a survival rate worse than your average childhood cancer.

  Marcus looked around at the bright, happy flowers and the neat, weathered cottages they decorated, and tried to fight off the terror that stalked him every minute of every day.

  An odd sound floated up from his chest region.

  Marcus looked down. Pure innocence looked back up at him. And then she grinned, took a deep breath, and blew a raspberry.

  Something suspiciously like girly giggles bubbled up in his throat. “Learned a new trick, have you? Bet you can’t do it again.”

  Oh, she could. Marcus walked the length of Fisher’s Cove, spellbound, watching wiggly lips blowing one raspberry after the other, interspersed with drooly grins.

  “You keep looking down like that, both of you are going to wind up in the ocean.”

  Marcus rolled his eyes. Once upon a time, the remote location of Fisher’s Cove had actually prevented tourist witches from dropping by for tea.

  Nell fell in beside him and smiled at the baby’s tricks. “She’s young to be doing that—don’t think any of mine mastered it for another couple of months yet.”

  Marcus felt a strange sense of pride. “Perhaps she had a better teacher.”

  Morgan blew a particularly noisy raspberry and Nell laughed. “I don’t think she agrees with you.”

  He ran his finger down Morgan’s nose, just another one of those little things he’d been unable to prevent himself from doing lately.

  “Lots of drooling,” said Nell, tickling the toes Morgan insisted on hanging out of every carrier. “Is she getting teeth?”

  Teeth? “I have no earthly idea.” And no clue how to check. The Fairy Godfather Manual had made no mention of teeth.

  “Just stick a clean finger in her mouth at some point and feel her gums.” Nell bent over to pick up something glittery on the side of the road. “It’s the ones in the front that come in first.”

  Why was it that every time he thought he was getting the hang of this baby business, some new wrinkle showed up? “Sounds like a good way to lose a finger.”

  Nell laughed. “Just be glad you aren’t nursing.”

  Ye gods and little fishes. Marcus wished desperately for brain bleach to erase the images that sprang unbidden into his head. He’d learned about diapers and burping and how to make it through the day without using up his entire shirt collection. But he refused to traumatize his bachelor brain with considerations of baby milk in any form.

  A man had to have his standards.

  And dammit, now both his companions were clearly laughing at him. He turned down the path to the beach, somewhat annoyed when Nell stayed casually at his side. “Don’t you have things to do?”

  “Yup.” She held out her hand, several shiny pebbles on her palm. “Jamie wants sparkly rocks for his next training session with Aervyn. I promised to collect some.”

  Sadly, the beach tended to run to an excellent supply of pebbles. “There are no rocks in California?”

  “When you get bigger,” Nell addressed herself to the happy girl in his arms, “perhaps you can teach your guardian here some social skills.”

  The insult, he ignored. It was the “when you get bigger” part that sent pangs through Marcus’s heart. The fear lurked so damn close, every hour of every day.

  “Sorry.” Nell spoke softly, voice full of empathy. “I know how hard it is.”

  No one could know. And then Marcus realized, grudgingly, that of all the witches, on all the beaches, she might be the one who did. Mama to the mightiest witch in generations. “How do you live with it?” He hated the tremor in his voice—but for Morgan, he would ask.

  “One day at a time.” Nell gazed out at the dancing waves. “And when that’s too much, one smile, or one minute, or one cookie at a time.” She reached down for a handful of sand, letting it run through her fingers. “Or in the words of my husband, ‘choose life unafraid.’”

  “It hurts.” Marcus blanched, horrified those two words were his.

  “Yup.” Nell picked up another shiny pebble. “And the more in love you fall, the more you let their sweetness tuck into all the dark, hidden corners of your heart, the more it hurts.”

  He sighed. “She burps like a trucker.”

  Nell’s chuckle rolled out over the water. “The reasons we fall in love never make sense.” She looked over, quiet for a moment. “You have to love a lot to do this.”

  Naked honesty. Not what he’d expected. He looked down at his raspberry-blowing girl. “I thought you’d feed me some line about joy and happiness and finding the shiny, sparkly moments.”

  “I will.” Nell’s smile held sadness—and challenge. “When you’re ready.”

  He watched Morgan’s naked toes play with the wind. And thought that perhaps he might be closer than she thought.

  Chapter 15

  Marcus contemplated the long, skinny box in his hands. The contents were no mystery. And given the village grapevine, the fact that the UPS truck had pulled up in front of his cottage was likely to have Lizzie on his doorstep before the tea kettle whistled.

  He looked over at Morgan, lying on a floor blanket doing her best imitation of a flipped-over crab. “You ready for sword-fighting lessons, baby girl?”

  Happily flailing arms suggested it might be a long process. Marcus watched her bat at random bits of air above her head. Moira said babies played with the faeries. Dust motes, more likely—the cottage came complete with plenty of those. Housekeeping was a bit more of a challenge when you only had one arm available most of the day. And so far, he’d managed to resist offers from neighbors wielding mops and brooms—he had enough invaders as it was.

  Running footsteps outside warned that the next one was about to arrive. Marcus pulled the door open. It wasn’t hospitality—the last time Lizzie h
ad bolted through his door, she’d nearly given him a concussion.

  “They’re here, they’re here!” She bounced off the walls like a dizzy human tornado.

  He wondered briefly if a helmet might have been a good idea as well. “Slow down, girl-child. Swords come with rules. Let’s review them, shall we?”

  She stopped, hands on hips and disgust plain on her face. “You never make Sean and Kevin do the rules.”

  “That’s because boys’ ears aren’t attached to their brains.” Marcus tapped on the box. “First rule—swords are for outside only.”

  Lizzie crossed her arms and glared. “Outside, no whacking, no leaving them on the floor for someone to trip on, and don’t poke anybody’s eye out.”

  That seemed like a fairly complete list. “Well then, let’s unpack them and find the instructions, shall we?”

  “Instructions?” Lizzie looked like he was speaking Mandarin Chinese. “They’re light sabers, Uncle Marcus. You hold them in your hands and fight.”

  Marcus reached for a pair of scissors. “Ah, but these ones have sound effects.”

  He was pretty sure Lizzie could make a career out of eye rolling. “You read the ’structions. I’ll just use my girl brains to figure that stuff out.”

  He winced, pretty sure he was losing control of the conversation yet again. If Lizzie used a sword half as well as she used words, Sean and Kevin were in deep trouble.

  When he opened the box, he expected the high-pitched squeal from the child bouncing beside him. What he didn’t expect was the pang of little-boy desire in his own heart. Even in plastic wrap, the sabers were… awesome.

  Damn Star Wars propaganda.

  And to hell with the instructions. With hands far too reverent for his own comfort, he lifted one of the sabers out of the box. And felt the handle accidentally slip into his hands. “En garde, evil invader!”

  The witchling under attack looked at the sword tip three inches from the end of her nose and giggled. “That’s not outside, Uncle Marcus. And it’s pretty close to poking out my eye. Do you know how to use that thing?”

  That kind of challenge to his manhood really couldn’t be tolerated. Marcus swiftly unwrapped both sabers and handed one over, hilt first. “To the back yard, miscreant!”