A Nomadic Witch (A Modern Witch Series: Book 4) (11 page)

Dammit.  When had she become “Morgan”?  “Girl-child” sounded far less… permanent.

He couldn’t keep a baby, no matter what all the powers of heaven, earth, and parts in between had to say.  He got a vote, the only one that mattered.

A leg kicked up out of the pouch.  Morgan wasn’t going about her usual business of snuggling in. 
What’s the matter—rethinking the lobsters?
 A second leg joined the first.

It was the hind end protesting.  Maybe she was wet.  Gingerly, he poked a finger in the general direction of her bottom.  No obvious puddles, and he wasn’t up to dealing with the non-emergency kind.

Which left food and long walks on the beach. 
Didn’t you get a bottle a couple of hours ago? 
He headed to the kitchen.  Someone much more familiar with baby feeding habits always seemed to deliver a bottle when he needed one.

Which was good, because he was never, ever having a conversation about baby milk. 

Or how it got in bottles on his counter. 

See, this is how they torture me.
  He shoveled the bottle in the general direction of Morgan’s mouth, and watched in amusement as all four limbs clutched it like manna from heaven. 
What, now you’re a baby monkey?

The naked toes wiggled in contented bliss. Marcus was quite sure he’d never seen them before. 
Lost your socks, did you?

All he got in reply were elephant-sized sucking sounds.  No wonder the kid burped like a beer-guzzling biker.

He watched as her eyelids started to droop.  Milk was like a baby sleep drug.  Giving in to odd temptation, he ran a finger down her cheek, wiping away the milk dribbles.  And then, very carefully, not thinking about why, set a monitoring spell.

Basic common sense.  Nothing more.

Chapter 8

Some moon harvestings were quiet and reverent.  This one was anything but.  Sophie looked over at her companion and chuckled.  “If the giggles get any louder, we’ll wake up half the village.”

Moira smiled, waving a quick incantation before she picked another bit of lemon balm.  “Fisher’s Cove is well used to strange happenings in the night.  The girls are just excited.”

Either that or they’d sniffed a little too much magically powered mint.  Sophie grinned, watching Lizzie hop lightly over the gathering basket.  “Don’t spill what we’ve gathered, wild child.”

“We won’t.”  Ginia grinned as she hopped over the basket too, albeit with a lot more clearance than her younger friend.  “Is it time for us to start the special moon gathering yet?”

Moira looked up at the sky.  “Just a few more minutes now.  We want to wait until her face is right where she can see us.”

Lizzie tilted her head sideways.  “I don’t see any eyes on the moon.”

“They’re not the kind of eyes we can see, silly.”  Ginia crouched down, kindness taking any sting out of the words.  “They’re eyes that we feel in our hearts.”

It was one of the better explanations of magic Sophie had ever heard.

“My mom has those kind of eyes.  She says they’re in the back of her head.”  Lizzie stared up, suddenly suspicious.  “She can see stuff I do even when I’m on the other side of the village.  How come the moon can’t do that?”

Moira chuckled.  “Perhaps she can, child.  All the more reason not to tip over the basket.”

Ginia picked up a handful of stems.  “Does the moon like flower wreaths?  Maybe Lizzie and I can braid some.”

“I haven’t danced with flowers in my hair for ages.”  Moira dropped an approving kiss on two small heads—and then winked at Sophie.  “And no turning it into physical therapy for old hands, either.”

It had only been an idea.  One Sophie rapidly tossed overboard.  Tonight was for magic.

Lizzie sat down, exuberance happily traded for a heap of flower stems.  “So, I checked.  Uncle Mike has lots of ear hairs.  He must be a really good daddy.”

Sophie rolled her eyes and was grateful both the moon and her husband had high tolerance for small-girl hijinks. 

Moira, chuckling, leaned over and picked several stems out of Lizzie’s lap.  “Twist them together like so, darling girl.  We want them to stay together while we dance.”

Apparently teaching could go where physical therapy didn’t dare.  Ginia, braid already forming under her skilled fingers, grinned at Sophie.  When Moira had that twinkle in her eye, all was right in the healer world.

Sophie breathed in the cool air of a late spring night—and gave thanks.  To the flowers, and the hands, young and old, that had kept Moira’s brain alive.

They still needed her heart.  The witching world wasn’t ready to lose its matriarch, even with several candidates in training.

Ginia, always sensitive to the unsaid, grabbed Lizzie’s hand.  “Let’s go get some of the special cornflowers for Aunt Moira’s crown.”  She glanced at the flowers’ owner.  “Can we?”

“Get some for all of us.”  Moira reached out and touched two shiny cheeks.  “They’re such a pretty blue—they’ll match your eyes.”

The girls sped off, racing toward the patch of the best-tended flowers in the witch universe.  It had been cornflowers under Moira’s hands when she’d fallen in her garden.  And every witch with even a mote of earth talent had poured their love into that patch of blue ever since.

“We should harvest some extra.  A nice bouquet for my nephew’s windowsill.”

Sophie hoped Marcus never found out how much healer meddling snuck in right under his nose.  “We could add some of the pretty clematis that matches Morgan’s eyes.”  And opened deep heart channels, given enough time.  She’d set Lizzie to tending that patch too.

“He’s warming to wee Morgan.”  Moira’s hands continued to braid.  “Slowly, but he’s stopped trying to find any woman in the village ready to take her.”

Even Marcus couldn’t be totally blind to the united wall of womanhood he faced.  “He’s learning how to take care of her.  The bottles keep coming back empty.”

“Mmm.  Not sure if he’s learning, or just bribing Lizzie to do it instead.”  Moira looked less than pleased by the most recent rumors.

Sophie nodded, understanding, but she’d picked up a key piece of intelligence—one that evidently Moira’s sources had missed.  She checked to make sure the girls were still down at the other end of the garden.  “Know what he’s bribing her
with
?”

Moira frowned.

“A saber.”  Sophie grinned.  “Top of the line, with lights
and
Darth Vader sound effects.”

It took a moment for realization to dawn—Darth Vader wasn’t a cultural icon for old Irish women.  “Those things the twins wave around?”  Moira’s smile bloomed.  “Our Lizzie’s been wanting one of those since the moment they were unwrapped.  Smart little devil, she is.”

That was the very best part.  “It wasn’t Lizzie’s idea.”

Moira froze, a hydrangea stem in her fingers.  “
Marcus
thought of that?” 

Sophie nodded—and waited.

And watched as the shock on Moira’s face shifted into something deeper and more vulnerable.  “He’s opening.  The babe—she heals him.”

Sophie hoped fervently it would be that simple.  It wasn’t only Marcus carrying heavy scars.  “He has a long journey.”

“Aye, I know.”  Moira’s face, turned up to the moon, held joy.  “But tonight, we can celebrate what has begun.”

It was what healers did. 

~ ~ ~

Cold.  Everything was so very, very cold.  Marcus clutched his scabby knees, willing the mists to go away.  They’d taken Evan—and they kept coming back for him.

He cowered under his bed, watching mist-laden fingers crawling toward his toes.  If you screamed, they just came faster.

And somewhere in the distance—laughter.  The mists knew he was weak.

Maybe it was time to let them eat him.  Just like they’d eaten Evan.

And then the cold touched his toes and the pain hurtled Marcus out of his ball of fear.

You can’t have me!

Desperate now, he pulled magic into his puny hands.  Water power just made the mists grow, so it was air he pulled.  He’d been practicing, every hour of every day.  Maybe tonight, it would finally be enough.

For one moment of terrible hope, the mists hesitated. 

And then he knew, just like he always did.  He wasn’t strong enough.  Marcus lunged out of his bed, howling at the mists and the cold and the awful noise ringing in his ears.

And realized it wasn’t his bed, he wasn’t five—and the child in his arms was ice cold.

Morgan!
 He pushed for her mind, as hard as he dared. 
MORGAN!

Her whimper cut through the shrilling alarm, the cold, and the icy fear in his heart.  She wasn’t gone.  The mists hadn’t taken her.  He could feel her now, drowsy, unhappy, and oh, so cold.

With a clenched fist, he waved off the monitoring spell’s red alert.  It had done its job.

Lurching to the door, he sucked in great, gulping swallows of night air.  No mists in sight—just a day-bright moon.  Clutching Morgan to his chest, he ran under its cool light.  He needed a healer.  Now.

~ ~ ~

Moira added one last cornflower to Lizzie’s wreath.  Perfect.  Just right for a little girl’s first moon dance.  “Try it on, sweetheart.”  She lifted it up—and realized she was about to crown thin air.

Lizzie was flying toward the garden gate, calling power as she ran.  Sophie was three steps ahead of her.

The madman charging in nearly trampled them both.

Marcus. 

Blessed Mother.

“I need a healer.”  It was his voice, ravaged beyond all recognition, that got her knees moving again.

But it was Sophie who caught him first.  “We’re here, Marcus.  We’re all here.  Let me touch her.”  Gentle hands reached for the baby he clutched to his chest.

Moira stepped forward.  Morgan wasn’t their only patient.  Marcus was as close to catatonic shock as she’d ever seen in a man still standing.  “Bring him inside.  Now.  We can tend to the child there.”  She tucked a hand under his arm—and discovered what it was to try to move a mountain.

It was Lizzie that got his feet moving.  “Just one step at a time, Uncle Marcus.  It’s nice and warm inside.  Morgan needs us to warm her up a little.  Take a step for me, now.”

A few lurching paces more and they had Marcus on her ample couch, Lizzie still clutching his hand.  Ginia squeezed Moira’s hand and dashed for the door, in search of warm milk.  Bless Elorie’s ample supply.

Sophie was bent over the baby, working around the two arms of steel that refused to let Morgan go.  Already her skin was pinking up nicely.  “Just cold, aren’t you, sweet girl.  We’ll get you fixed up in no time.”

It was Marcus who had Moira scared.  His skin was the terrible gray of a man two days dead.

Sophie laid a hand on Morgan’s head one last time, and then moved on to her next patient.  Carefully, she set up a healing aura—and Moira smiled in impressed approval as she looped in both the baby and young Lizzie.  Healers learned to find power in unexpected places.

Her eyes glanced over at Moira, and lit with humor.  “We could use that, too.”

Moira looked down and realized she still clutched Lizzie’s wreath—bedecked in magic-soaked cornflowers.  Hands shaking like spring petals in a stiff wind, she stretched it out to her nephew’s head.  A gift of moondust and love.

Lizzie grinned up at him.  “You look really lovely tonight, Uncle Marcus.”

The ghostly smile that cracked his face was the most beautiful sight Moira had seen in a very long time.

Their smallest healer touched his cheek—and began to sing.

“The moon shines bright, the baby sleeps

A warm and happy dream in creeps—”

Moira tried not to laugh.  The little imp was trying to cast a sleep spell, and a very sneaky one, too.  “Not just yet, sweetheart.  Sophie needs a little more time to work, and we need to ask Marcus a few questions.”

Lizzie frowned.  “Are you sure that’s a good idea?  He seems awfully tired.”

Moira nodded in approval.  It was good for healers to ask questions.  “He needs sleep, lovely girl—but he also needs for us to help him keep Morgan safe.  And perhaps you can get him to drink a nice cup of tea, too.”  One laced with a few things her nephew hopefully wouldn’t recognize.

I’m smart enough not to drink healer tea.
 

The mindvoice was raspy, like it hadn’t been used in a decade—but it warmed the very cockles of Moira’s heart.  “You’ll drink what we give you.  When you’ve a wee one depending on you, you can’t act like a difficult child.”

Sparks flashed in Marcus’s eyes, and something approaching healthy color flooded his cheeks.  Sophie grinned and kept her head down, quietly healing while he was otherwise distracted.

Ah, it was good to be useful.  Moira eyed her nephew.  “Lizzie, if he gets at all disagreeable, fetch me that bottle of stinking-lily tincture.”  It actually tasted rather mild, but no one ever doubted the name.

“I’m not your patient.”  He scowled down at the child in his arms.  “She is.”

One tiny foot kicked in apparent disagreement.

Moira had to agree with the babe—at the moment, her keeper looked the far worse for wear.  She looked up as Ginia skated into the room, bottle in her hand.  “Well, this ought to fix up anything else that ails her.”