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

Jamie walked into the Witches’ Lounge bearing beer and pizza.  He had no idea why they were having a guy huddle, but he knew what to bring.

Daniel and Mike, sitting on the couch, brightened at the sight of beer. 

Jamie tossed two over.  “Any idea why we’re here?”

“Nope.”  Mike pulled up the top of the pizza box and rubbed his hands together.  “Score—you brought the good stuff.”

He had.  Middle-of-nowhere Nova Scotia didn’t run to greasy deep-dish pizza.  Neither did Nat’s stomach.  Jamie reached over and grabbed a slice.  “Brings back memories.”

Daniel grinned.  “Late-night coding sessions.”

Jamie snorted.  “You don’t get out enough, dude.”

“Right.  Says the guy who ate at least half of my late-night pizza.”

Likely more than half—witches tended to be pizza hogs, and Daniel had put in some serious hours on Realm in the early days.

“You only brought one?”  Mike eyed the pizza box mournfully.  “We should probably save Aaron a slice.”

“Aaron lacks the proper appreciation of grease.”  Jamie intercepted the drip of cheese goo sliding down his arm.  It was pretty much Aaron’s only failing, but as guy flaws went, it was a big one.

“Aaron brought steaks,” said a wry voice from the door.

The smell that wafted off the plate in his hand had three grown men ready to beg.  Jamie held out the pizza box.  “Here, have an appetizer.”

“I like my arteries actually functioning.”  Steaks landed on the table, along with cutlery, napkins, and a bottle of screaming hot sauce.  “Not all of us can just magic pizza glue out of our systems.”

The cheese goo on his arm wasn’t looking quite so tasty.  Jamie reached for the hot sauce, mildly disgusted.  “Spoilsport.”

“
He
brought steaks,” said Daniel, sticking a fork into one the size of a small house.  “
You
brought really tasty cardboard.”

Jamie gave the remnants of his pizza one last, sad look and forked a steak.  “So are we here just to prove Aaron’s total food domination, or is there another reason?”

Everyone looked at the bearer of the steaks—he was the guy who’d called the meeting.

“Marcus.”  That one word changed the mood in the room considerably.  “He needs help.”

“He’s got it.”  Daniel stole the hot sauce.  “You feed him, I give him sling lessons, Jamie’s digging on Morgan’s past, Elorie’s supplying milk, and every witch in Realm is on standby.  What’s left?”

“He’s clueless.”  Aaron grimaced.  “He doesn’t know about burp cloths, Morgan’s diapers are mostly on backwards, and the two of them are sleeping in an easy chair every night.”

Jamie winced—he’d done a couple of nights in an easy chair with Kenna.  Not conducive to good sleep.  Or walking upright the next day.

Daniel raised an eyebrow.  “Sounds like you have spies.”

“Lizzie’s pretty chatty.”  Aaron pushed a fork around his plate.  “Most of us were pretty dumb when our kids arrived, right?”

There might have been an errant diaper or two.  Jamie grinned at his brother-in-law.  “At least I didn’t let my two-month-old into the Doritos.”  The Nell of twelve years ago had not been impressed.

“It was one chip.”  Daniel rolled his eyes.  “And it kept him happy for an entire hour.  How was I supposed to know it would turn his poop into toxic waste for a whole week?”

Jamie remembered.  The whole Walker house had been on quarantine—even Gramma Retha hadn’t been willing to change Dorito diapers for her firstborn grandchild.  He looked over at Aaron.  “We’ll stipulate to dumb.  Where are you headed with this?”

“Marcus probably isn’t any dumber than your average new father.”  Aaron stopped at all the raised eyebrows.  “Okay, maybe so, but he’s figured some things out.”  He put down his fork and sighed.  “Here’s the deal.  This is going to be hard enough on him without having to learn about diapers and bath time and burp cloths whenever some woman occasionally decides to take random pity on him.”

Mike sighed.  “I think they’re mostly taking pity on Morgan.”

“The man’s been an ass.”  Daniel tossed a baseball at the ceiling.  “He’s been telling people this stuff is women’s work ever since he was old enough to avoid Moira’s cauldron.  Most of the women I know figure he deserves to struggle a little.”  He shrugged.  “I’m not sure they’re wrong.”

“They’re wrong,” said Aaron quietly.  “Or rather, they’re right.  It’s not theirs to do.”

It was always the quiet guy with the steaks who got you in the end.  Jamie leaned forward and stole back the hot sauce.  “You think it’s ours.”

“Yeah.”  Aaron intercepted Daniel’s ball.  “And I think I know how.”

~ ~ ~

Marcus contemplated the heap of black shirts on his floor.  And the happily naked baby on his bed.  “I think, girl-child, that it’s time to do laundry.”  Neither of them had anything remotely respectable to wear, thanks to Morgan’s latest poop disaster.

It seemed impossible that so much goop could come out of such a small child.  And diapers seemed very poorly designed for the job, given how much escaped them.

He was also a little concerned that the diapers weren’t the only thing smelling like poop.  And very sure he’d never actually seen anyone bathing an infant.  He believed it occurred—but the “how” was entirely a mystery.

He lived in a village full of hot-and-cold helpful women, but damned if he was asking any of them.  Marcus juggled Morgan in one arm and scooped up his laptop in the other.

Google—a desperate man’s best friend.

Unfortunately, “how to give a baby a bath” produced all kinds of information—but it all required special bath devices or an infant capable of sitting up.  He eyed Morgan.  She’d never shown any indications of such a skill.

He slid her carefully into the center of his bed and propped her up in something resembling a seated position.  It felt like trying to mold Jell-O.  “I think you have to put in some effort for this to work, girl-child.”  He got her into a basic tripod shape and let go.  Morgan promptly folded in half, happily chewing on the toe now conveniently under her mouth.

Marcus was pretty sure his mouth and his toe didn’t meet under any circumstances.  It also seemed clear that Gumby baby hadn’t mastered sitting up—and the toe-eating position seemed undesirable in a bathtub full of water.

Curious, he reached for his computer again.  Babies sat up unassisted somewhere between three and six months old.  “You’re not all that much older than the rest of the babies around here, then.”

Computer in his lap, he rolled Morgan onto her back.  Even for a baby, it couldn’t be all that comfortable to be bent in two.  She waved her toes happily in the air.

Her slightly stinky toes.

Dammit—babies weren’t supposed to stink.  Even the cat had run in protest, and that was probably a bad sign.

His email pinged.  Marcus ignored it.  No way the womenfolk of the village would let him live down a stinky baby.  His pride was on the line.

His Google chat pinged.  He ignored that too.  Someone on the worldwide web had to know how to bathe a three-ish-month-old baby.  Maybe if he put just a tiny amount of water in the bathtub, she could lay on her back…   And freeze—the heat in his bathroom was intermittent at best.

A big, flashing, neon-orange rectangle popped up on his screen.  “DUDE.  Check your email.  The Fairy Godfathers.”

Marcus blinked—and it was gone.  Gods.  He was hallucinating.

His email pinged again.  Annoyed, Marcus clicked into his inbox.  And gaped.  One new email.  With one link. 
The Complete Manual of Babies.  Brought to you by the Fairy Godfathers.

He stared.  Computer virus?  Practical joke?

And then he remembered that he was currently lying on his bed with a mostly naked, stinky baby capable of spreading poop in all four cardinal directions even while fully clothed.

He clicked.

~ ~ ~

Danger stalked her village.

Moira walked out the door of her cottage, uneasy and unable to shake the sense of portent hanging over her shoulder.  It wasn’t Morgan—the sun shone brightly in the noonday sky.  Astral travel was a magic of the night.

A strange car drove up the main street of the village.

Ah.  A visitor then.  And perhaps, not a welcome one.

Moira moved slowly through her garden, collecting magic as she walked, and then stood by the gate and waited.  There was only one way into Fisher’s Cove—and it ran through her kitchen.

The stranger got out of her car.  A middle-aged woman, slightly frazzled.  “Hello—I’m Denise Warren, from Child Protection Services.  I’ve come to see a Marcus Buchanan about a baby?”

Now Moira knew what stalked her village.  A woman with a kind face.  Wind stirred suddenly in the garden.  “Come in for a cup of tea, won’t you?”

“Normally that would be lovely.”  Denise smiled, hand still on her car door.  “But it took me a while to find you way out here, and I really do need to locate Mr. Buchanan.”

No need to send the woman on a wild goose chase.  “I’m his aunt.  Come in and sit with me, and I’ll send one of the children to find him.”  Eventually.  A good Irish cup of tea could take a while.

“Thank you. I will, then.”  Denise reached into her car and pulled out a bag the size of a small elephant.  “If you’ve got something herbal, that would be much appreciated.  I’ve had too much coffee today, and it’s got me a bit jittery all of a sudden.”

That was interesting.  Obviously Moira wasn’t the only one feeling the portents.  And judging from the whispers moving through her flowers, magic stirred.  Old magic.  Not everyone knew how to listen, but Sophie did—and she would tell anyone else who needed to know.

Relieved, Moira led the way into her kitchen.  “I’ve some nice chamomile, and perhaps a cookie or two left in my canister, if you’d like.”

Denise chuckled.  “You have grandchildren, do you?  Mine always have their hands in the cookie jar.”

Moira revised her estimation of the stranger’s age.  “We’ve wee ones aplenty in Fisher’s Cove.”  She reached up for tea cups.  “Some related by blood and some not, but they all belong with us.”

Denise fingered the soft leaves of her kitchen sage.  “I’m not here to take what belongs to you.”

That remained to be seen.  “Why are you here, then?”

“I got a message from Mr. Buchanan.  He reported that a baby had been left on his doorstep.  We’re not open on the weekend, and he didn’t call our crisis line, so I only got the message early this morning.  I did call to tell him I was coming, but kept getting his voicemail.”

Betrayal warred with guilt in Moira’s heart.  “When did he call you, exactly?”

Denise pulled a well-used day timer out of her voluminous bag and consulted its pages.  “10:37 a.m. Saturday.”

Morgan had arrived on Friday night.  On Saturday morning, Marcus had been trying to give the baby to anyone who would take her.  Moira sighed.  And she’d been one step ahead of him, making sure every woman in Fisher’s Cove said no. 

Time to clean up the mess she’d helped create.

“Saturday was a bit of a difficult morning.  Quite a bit of confusion.  It’s entirely possible my nephew didn’t mean to leave you a message.”

“Oh, I most certainly did.”

Moira’s head snapped up at the quiet menace in her nephew’s voice.  He stood in her small doorway, his black cloak swirling around his shoulders.  He looked like he’d walked out of a fifteenth-century grimoire—except for the small fuzzy head sticking out of the bundle strapped to his chest.

Marcus scowled, which did nothing to soften his dark and brooding image.
 Your flowers talk rather loudly, Aunt Moira.  And I’ll thank you to stop speaking for me.

She’d only been trying to help.  Moira shuddered—this wasn’t a man ready to make the choice he needed to make.

That doesn’t give you the right to make it for me.
  He hammered every word into her heart.

Denise Warren stood up from the table, wide-eyed—and blind to the blood flying in the room.  “You’re Marcus Buchanan?”

“I am.”

Moira put her hands over her heart—and prayed.  It was all that was left.

Denise reached out and touched Morgan’s head gently.  “And this is the baby you want me to collect?”

Marcus just stood, a granite rock with a baby on his chest. 

It was Denise who finally broke the silence.  “She’s beautiful.  You’ve taken good care of her.”  She tickled naked toes.  “And I see she loses her socks, just like my smallest grandson.”

“Won’t keep them on.”  Marcus, voice gruff, pulled two wee socks out of his pocket.  “I’ve ordered her some of those sleepers with feet.”

Moira blinked in astonishment.

Denise leaned in.  “She smells wonderful—what do you use to wash her hair?”

“Some girlie concoction,” Marcus growled, cheeks turning a most interesting shade of pink.  “She seemed to like it.”

“I’m sure you did, didn’t you, sweetheart,” Denise crooned at the drooly girl.  “And you look well fed.”

Moira watched her nephew turn forty shades of crimson, and finally found her voice.  “We’ve several nursing mothers in the village with extra supply.  She’ll never want for milk.”

“Not entirely within regulations.”  Denise winked.  “But we can be flexible for the right situation.”

Something had righted itself, Moira could feel it.  She just had no idea what.  “For which situation, exactly?”

Dark brown eyes met hers. “The one we find ourselves in.  I’m not in the business of carting off happy babies.” 

Denise turned to Marcus.  “I can file emergency paperwork to designate you as a temporary foster home, authorized to care for one infant.  I’ll need to come out for regular visits, and we’ll require your full cooperation in an attempt to locate her biological parents.”  She paused, five feet of suddenly daunting grandmother.  “If that’s what you want.”

The silence was absolute—and it took a decade off Moira’s life.

But when Marcus finally nodded, his answer was yes.

~ ~ ~

The news had spread through both Realm and the village like wildfire.  Marcus was keeping his baby.

Sophie bounced Adam on her shoulder as they walked through Moira’s garden.  She’d paged Nell.  Time to gather and get the scoop from the single eyewitness.