A Nomadic Witch (A Modern Witch Series: Book 4) Read online

  Maybe. Jamie mentally searched the contents of the garage for the camping supplies—and felt muffled laughter hit his mind channels. Unless you cleaned up since the last time I was in your garage, just give up now, brother mine.

  It wasn’t a total disaster—he knew exactly where his motorcycle was. The rest was just creatively distributed. And his sister obviously wasn’t in Fisher’s Cove anymore.

  Nell’s chuckles multiplied, audible now as she made her way down the stairs. Jamie ported the cookies and beer she carried over to the desk.

  Daniel, older and wiser, went to grab the sleeping bags. “Four asleep at home?”

  “Six. Sierra’s crashed in with the girls, and Caro’s taken over the couch.” Nell kissed her daughter’s forehead and settled into a chair. “Something about making bunny pancakes with Aervyn in the morning.”

  “We have babysitters?” Her husband wiggled his eyebrows. “Jamie, port us someplace private, would you?”

  Jamie grabbed a beer. “There’s an air mattress in the garage somewhere.” Nothing in the brother manual said he had to make his sister’s sex life easy.

  Nell laughed and snagged a cookie, kissing her husband on the way back to her chair. “Catch me up—did you figure out how Adele got in?”

  Daniel grinned. “Not the same way I did.”

  Jamie winced—it still messed seriously with his pride that anyone had ever busted into Realm, but at least the first guy to do it had owned serious coding chops. And the first thing they’d hired Daniel to do afterward was to fix the holes he’d used to get in. Realm had been invincible ever since.

  Until their shiny gold visitor had shown up.

  Nell looked his direction. Jamie sighed and told her the answer she wouldn’t like any better than he had. “If it wasn’t coding skills, then it had to be magic.”

  His sister just rolled her eyes and reached for another cookie. Tell me something I don’t know.

  It was hard to be at your best at 2 a.m. “I’ve been running traces in the scanning data.” All magic used in Realm left a record, one they primarily used for repair work. Witches were good at breaking things. “I’ve found her entry, but the traces make no sense.”

  He clicked a couple of keys, muttered a quick spell, and brought up what Mia called the holo-display. It was very Star Trek. “See here? That’s the spike when she entered.”

  Nell frowned and poked her finger at thin air. “The data’s backwards, baby brother.”

  He stuck out his tongue—the standard response to that particular nickname ever since he’d been Aervyn’s age. “It’s not. I quadruple checked it. The energy surge came from inside Realm.”

  His sister blinked, cookie halfway to her mouth. “She broke in from the inside?”

  That’s what the data said, which made exactly zero sense. “I traced all the users online when she showed up. Several witches, and plenty of them up to mischief, but none with that kind of power.”

  Daniel’s eyes narrowed. “Power can be augmented by code. I looked for a hacker on the outside, but not one on the inside.”

  Finally, points for the sleep-deprived witch. Jamie stretched his creaky back again. “I did. The best coder online when it happened was Ginia.” Who had definitely not been aiding and abetting a Realm breach—Mia had been ready to spit nails at the mere suggestion. “And even inside code leaves tracks. There just aren’t any.”

  He shrugged, brain fighting the suck of exhaustion. Nell was awesomely smart, even in the middle of the night. Time to lay out the facts. “No coding. Lots of magic from the inside, but not Net magic. Unknown origins, unknown witch.”

  Nell’s eyebrows flew up at the last two. “It wasn’t Adele doing the magic?”

  He’d spent the last two hours making sure. “Nope. She had help. Help with some serious spellcasting talents.” The parallels weren’t lost on either of them. A baby and a glittery visitor, both coated in strange magic.

  Time to go visit a Las Vegas medium.

  Right after he got some sleep.

  Chapter 5

  Hell was at the door. Marcus sprang up in the dark, sleep fleeing as he prepared to fight the barbarians at the gates.

  And realized, all too late, that the barbarian was still in his chair, screaming like she’d been run through. Gods. A tiny, flailing ball of mad with the lungs of a staff sergeant.

  Smart men slept alone.

  He squinted at the old clock on his mantel. 5:30 a.m. The time of the mists.

  Shadows of terror still lurching through his nerves, Marcus reached for the baby, annoyed lullaby at the ready—and realized the fear he felt wasn’t all his. Her brain was frantic, a tiny maelstrom of fright.

  It pummeled his heart. And then she did, little fists and heels beating into his chest as he cuddled her close. “Shh, sweet girl. Shh. It’s just the night. I’ve got you now. Shh.”

  She was so cold. He grabbed one of Moira’s throws off the back of the couch, cursing his total incompetence. What idiot let a baby sleep half naked? Fire power wasn’t in his arsenal, but he pushed energy into the air around her, calling the molecules to a faster dance.

  One last piercing wail and the five-alarm cries stopped, replaced by hiccupping sniffles that did funny things to his ability to breathe. “Shh, sweetheart, that’s it now.” Morgan snuggled close, soothed by the magic, warm wool, and soft words.

  Marcus was soothed by none of them.

  Guilt stomped across familiar pathways in his soul, kicking the occasional rock for good measure. What kind of utter moron couldn’t manage to keep a baby fed and warm for a few hours? He looked down into bright eyes, shaking his head in disgust. “This should be a lesson to both of us, girl-child.”

  She only looked up at him, a stray hiccup all that disturbed the picture of wide-awake contentment.

  Marcus sighed. “Not going back to sleep, are you?” Amusement snuck in, despite his efforts to bar the gates. “Aunt Moira says wee girls who wake up early are destined to rule the world.” Which sounded like utter hogwash until you were peering into sparkling eyes at 5:30 a.m.

  Hecate’s hells. Babies didn’t sparkle, and grown men didn’t listen to old Irish fairy tales.

  He glowered down at the girl in his arms—and snorted in surprise as she glowered right back. Feisty little thing, are you?

  She scrunched up her face one more time—and then an explosion of major proportions rocked her lower half.

  Marcus hadn’t been born yesterday. Anyone stuck in Fisher’s Cove for the last two months knew that babies pooped with a vengeance.

  Very carefully, he shifted his hands away from the danger zone.

  Time to give her back to the experts. They could hardly blame him that she’d picked 5 a.m. to empty her bowels.

  ~ ~ ~

  Moira smiled into her tea as shadows moved in her garden. Either the faeries were dancing in her flowers again, or a tall man with a baby in his arms was coming for a visit.

  She’d be fine with either.

  The shadows moved toward her back entry. Marcus and Morgan, then. She got up to pour another cup of tea—her nephew wasn’t a morning witch.

  Her back carefully to the door, she waited until the latch closed behind him. No point making it easy for him to run. “The best of the morning to you, then. Scones will be a minute in the oven yet.”

  “She’s filled her diaper.”

  Moira tucked her grin away before she turned around. “Well, and good morning to you too, nephew.”

  He held out the baby at arms’ length. Carefully.

  Silly man. Moira picked up his cup of tea and moved toward the table where her cup still beckoned. “You’ll be needing that bag of supplies we sent home with you.” Not entirely true—she always had a nappy or two tucked away—but time he started to learn the basic rules of caring for a wee one.

  He looked like she’d asked him to stroll across the ocean barefoot and bring her back a nice Irish cuppa.

  Trying desperately not to giggle, Moira
bent over her tea cup, inhaling deeply. “You’ll be wanting a fresh diaper and some of the wet cloths in the purple pouch.” Baby paraphernalia had come a long way since her day. She’d stitched whimsies onto the purple wipes pouch herself.

  “Bag.” The item in question slammed down on the table.

  “Baby.” Marcus towered above her, holding out the tiny girl with curious eyes. “Anything else you need?”

  Moira knew a key moment in battle when she met one. “A bit more honey for my tea would be nice, but that can wait until you’ve gotten Morgan a new nappy.”

  “I don’t change diapers.” Said with the finality of the Grim Reaper.

  “You do now.” Her nephew wasn’t the only witch who could use that tone.

  It took a very long time, but Marcus finally blinked. “You change every baby in the village. Why not this one?”

  Victors could be gracious—and whether he knew it or not yet, this battle was over. “I do. And I’ll be happy to help you with her care from time to time.” She tried to find words that would make sense to his agile, narrow-minded brain. “When you train a witchling, do you take care of all the magic for them?” She knew the answer—few trainers were tougher on their charges than her nephew.

  “No.” The answer came grudgingly. Followed by a small light of defiance. “But you assume I want to learn how to change a diaper.”

  Ah, how she enjoyed a dance of wits. “Not at all. I assume it’s a skill you need to acquire. There’s a world of difference.”

  “Caring for babies is women’s work.”

  For that, he deserved a cup of tea poured on his head—but sometimes the best revenge wasn’t the most obvious one. Moira knew her village, her neighbors, and her nephew. “Fine then. Feel free to find a woman who agrees with you.” She picked up her tea, willing the twinkle out of her eyes. “I’d say you have a couple more minutes before wee Morgan becomes quite unhappy with her current state of affairs.”

  She’d have sworn two lavender eyes twinkled right back at her.

  Dark brown ones snapped with fear-tinged fury. “What is this, some kind of twisted revenge?”

  No, my sweet, wounded boy. Moira set the thought free, trusting his mind would be unable to ignore it. I believe it’s a long-needed gift.

  She held her breath until Marcus stormed out, oddly contented babe still in his arms. And considered it a fine start to her morning.

  ~ ~ ~

  Nell looked at the Taj Mahal of hotels dominating the landscape in front of them and glanced over at her brother. “She lives in a casino?”

  Jamie grinned. “No. A few blocks away. Maybe Daniel thinks we should try the slots first.”

  Great. A Realm taxi driver with a sense of humor—just what they needed. Nell picked up her phone to text her husband, and laughed as a nine-year-old face came onscreen instead. “Sorry, Mama. Aervyn wanted to help, and he missed a little.”

  Even better—apparently they were letting five-year-olds drive now. “Uncle Jamie will practice with him later. Can you beam us to Adele’s offices now?”

  Mia nodded, full of repressed humor. “They’re really sparkly.”

  That was quite the statement from the Queen of Glitter. “I’ll tell Uncle Jamie to put on his sunglasses. Beam us over, Scotty.”

  “Beaming.” Mia looked down—and Nell felt the odd suck of a Realm transport spell.

  When she popped out the other end, the first thing she did was grab her brother’s sunglasses. “Holy hell.” “Sparkly” was an entirely inadequate adjective for the bedazzled view.

  “It takes work to out-glitter Las Vegas,” said an amused voice over her shoulder. Nell spun around—and found herself nose-to-nose with gold lamé.

  She’s not surprised to see us. Jamie’s mindsend was cautious, but impressed.

  “Course I’m not.” Adele nodded at the glitzy woman standing by the door and headed into the office building of Underwood International. “You’re smart people, and I’m not hard to find.”

  Nell slammed down her mental barriers. “You mindread?”

  Gold shoulders shrugged and angled toward the private elevator. “Only when someone with decent power is being sloppy.” Adele eyed them both. “And that’s the last advantage I give up on my turf.”

  Message received, loud and clear. Adele Underwood was a force to be reckoned with. A very shiny force.

  Which meant it was time for an apology. “Sorry. Witches who live in Berkeley shouldn’t throw stones or make fast judgments based on appearances.” Nell held out her hand. “We have a mystery to solve, and we’d really appreciate your help.”

  “You’d have had it anyhow.” Adele’s eyes outsparkled her rings. “But since you’re going to play nicely, I won’t mess with you for a few days before I give it.”

  She could have done it—that was abundantly clear. Nell nodded. “You’re a witch. One who can do more than just the occasional fire globe.”

  “Not much more.” Adele ushered them both out of the elevator onto carpet four inches thick. “A stitch of mindreading, intermittent empathy, a little precog. And occasionally the dead talk to me.”

  “Not what your bio says.” Jamie paused, taking in the gold-plated view of Adele Underwood’s private office. “You peddle snake oil.”

  Oh, boy. Clearly her brother wasn’t quite ready to extend his respects to a fellow witch.

  “I don’t.” Adele gestured to two chairs. “I used to work the customer service hotline at a telephone company. You wouldn’t believe the number of people who called just to chat. People need someone to talk to. I provide that.”

  “For $4.99 a minute.”

  Ah. Now Nell knew why Jamie was still circling the wagons. He’d done most of the digging on Underwood International.

  “For the first three minutes. Rest of the call’s free. Up to an hour.” Adele dropped into a facing chair. “I assumed a skilled investor like yourself would have read the fine print.”

  Nell’s eyes snapped away from the windows. Jamie invested very quietly. Adele had done some digging of her own—deep and fast. “You don’t build this kind of empire charging fifteen dollars an hour.”

  “Nope.” Adele poured coffee into three cups. She winked at Jamie. “I have some investments. They do pretty well. This here is all just pretty wrapping so folks feel like they’re getting their money’s worth when they call to talk to my people.”

  Her baby brother had a hell of a poker face, but Nell could feel the neurons in his brain shorting. “You promise messages from the dead.”

  “Sure do.” Adele set down her coffee cup, eyes suddenly serious. “You ever talked to the dead? They pretty much all have only one thing they want to say. ‘I love you.’” She shrugged. “And the occasional dead asshat who doesn’t want to say that isn’t getting any of my help.”

  Game, set, match. Nell grinned—no way Jamie could hold out against a woman who stood against dead asshats.

  It took a moment. And then humor flooded into his eyes, along with something deeper. “Evan’s message wasn’t that simple.”

  “No.” Adele’s voice leaked sadness. “Although the love is there too, whenever folks are ready to believe it.”

  Nell tried not to feel sorry for one crusty old bachelor. “He expects us to believe messages about soldiers and babies instead?”

  “Not all of you. Just enough of you to keep the child safe.” Adele sat up straighter. “Wait. Has Morgan arrived?”

  It didn’t take a mindreader to pick up her racing concern. Nell sipped her coffee, willing the caffeine to her brain. “She did. Last night. We need to know more about what’s going on. She arrived coated in magic.”

  Adele nodded slowly. “She would have. He would have taken every precaution.”

  “He? Evan?” Jamie leaned forward. “He’s alive?”

  “No.” Adele stood up and walked toward the windows. “He’s a traveler. One with the strongest magic I’ve ever seen.”

  Nell felt the world shifting under her
feet. “Wait. Astral travelers aren’t dead?”

  “To most of us, they are.” Sparkly fingers danced in the early morning light. “I only know what little Evan has been able to explain. There’s a world between, one that travelers can visit.”

  “Most don’t come back.” Jamie’s voice was tight with fear.

  Adele’s face softened. “Your Kenna isn’t a traveler. Evan said to tell you that.”

  Nell watched a weight lift from her brother’s shoulders—one she hadn’t even known existed.

  His breath whooshed out. “I have some precog. She’s got so much magic…”

  “Not this one.” Adele patted his shoulder. “He seemed very sure.”

  Jamie nodded, mind heavy with gratitude.

  Nell said quiet thanks to a dead man she’d never met. “He’s still in that world—the in-between one?” And he couldn’t come back—that much she could read in their occasional medium’s eyes.

  “Yes. He calls it the halfway house.” Eyes met Nell’s over her brother’s head. “He does what he can to help the souls passing through. Sends on the dead peacefully, chases the occasional traveler back to safety.”

  Traveling was a talent most witchlings grew out of—if they lived. Evan had been the last witchling lost to the astral plane. The dots connected. “He sends our travelers back?”

  Adele nodded. “He kept saying something about ‘with great power comes great responsibility.’”

  Nell felt the lump hit her throat. “If you talk to him again, tell him thank you. And that his aunt Moira would be very proud of him.”

  “That will be up to him.” Adele sat down again, picking up her coffee. “He comes to me. I just listen and deliver messages. And crash into your Witches’ Lounge against my better judgment. He weaves a hell of a spell, that one.”

  Jamie’s eyebrows hit the ceiling. “Evan got you into Realm?”

  Adele’s laugh was loud, long, and sent every inch of gold lamé shimmering. “You think I’m that kind of computer genius, honey boy?”

  Nell filed away the “honey boy” for the next time she needed to poleax Jamie. Big sisters took their advantages where they could. “You’re saying a five-year-old boy lives in the in-between world and throws around enough magic to transport babies and full-grown witches?”