A Nomadic Witch (A Modern Witch Series: Book 4) (5 page)

With the experience of a healer long used to reluctant patients, she shepherded the mostly catatonic Marcus into the living room, still holding the basket out at arm’s length as if it contained a red-haired, lavender-eyed bomb.

Maybe it did.

“Set her down here, on the table.”  Sophie looked into the bright eyes.  Just what they needed—another night-owl baby.  She reached out a finger again, this time adding a light healing scan.  “Hello, beautiful.  What’s your name?”

“Morgan.  There’s a note.”  Marcus had backed away to the far corner of the room.  Sophie hoped Mike was quick. 

“That’s a big name for such a little girl.”  Sophie kept crooning nonsense, mostly for Marcus’s benefit.  A tie, however tenuous, holding him in the room.  “And healthy, too.”  The first levels of healing scan showed a perfectly healthy baby girl, about three months old.

The physical covered, Sophie shifted to scanning the magical.  Her hands moved with the automatic ease of something done thousands of times—and then tripped into dynamite.

Holy hell.

Sophie spun around, one arm cradling Adam tightly.  “She’s covered in magic.” 

He nodded, wordless—and now she understood his fear.

A lavender-eyed bomb.  Sophie stepped away, mama bear protecting the child in her arms. 

The rasp from the far wall bruised her ears.  “I’ve shielded him.  Adam.  She’ll do him no harm.”

More carefully now, Sophie traced magical lines.  Yes, Adam was shielded—as was every other little one in Fisher’s Cove.  Marcus the recluse had a very soft spot for the tiny and weak.

He moved a step closer into the room.  “The magic isn’t hers, or at least, not mostly hers.  Is it safe to drain it?”

Cripes, she hadn’t even made it that far.  So much for being the calm presence in the room.  Sophie reached out again to bright lavender eyes, this time with a fully barriered scan, and tried to contain her unease.  The aura of power around the tiny girl was supernova bright to magical sight—and Marcus was right.  Most of it wasn’t hers.

Time to wake up more than Fisher’s Cove.

~ ~ ~

Nell shook off the still-weird feeling of a Realm transport spell and caught her daughter by the shoulder.  “Easy, sweetheart—Mike said it wasn’t an emergency.” 

Ginia stopped trying to run and rubbed her eyes, adorable in jeans, a single bunny slipper, and one of Aervyn’s T-shirts.  She’d been asleep in her brother’s bed when the all-healers alarm had sounded.  “They need my help, Mama.”

Nell bent over and slid the second bunny slipper on a small foot, trying not to resist the adult-sized weight that came with her daughter’s talents.  “I know, love.  Here, have a cookie.”

“Aunt Moira has cookies too, you know.”  Ginia’s eyes were brighter now, her sense of humor waking up along with the rest of her brain.  “But none of them are as good as yours.”

If cookies were all you rode with into battle some days, they’d better be damned good ones.  Nell took her daughter’s hand.  “Let’s go find the troops, shall we?”  They’d beamed into a very quiet cottage, so clearly the action was elsewhere.

They’d made it about three steps into Moira’s garden when Lizzie came flying down the path, eyes glowing.  “Ginnie, Ginnie!  Uncle Marcus has a baby girl and she’s cute and her name is Morgan and we have to untie her magical stuff and Sophie says maybe Net magic will help but we should be careful.  Come on!”

Nell, well used to translating small-child communications, relaxed.  Whatever it was that had called them here, it wasn’t life-threatening—for all her exuberance, Lizzie took healing very seriously.

And then the details of her babble hit.  Marcus.  A baby.  Magic.

Oh, shit.

She grabbed both girls’ hands.  “Where is everyone, Lizzie?”

“At Sophie and Mike’s house.  That’s where Uncle Marcus brought Morgan, and he woke Adam up and everything.”

Nell winced—Adam was a touchy sleeper.  “Who else is there?”

“Just you guys.  And Gran.”  Lizzie squiggled through the fence at the end of the garden.  “We’re not supposed to make a big kerfuffle cuz it’s the middle of the night.”

Ginia hopped over the fence, bunny slippers and all.  Nell grinned as she used the gate—she’d been a fence-hopper too, once upon a time. 

“Oh.”  Their small guide stopped, forehead wrinkling.  “And I woke up Elorie even though Aaron said that it better be really important or heads would roll.”  She put her hands over her ears.  “I don’t know if heads would roll very well—they’re kind of bumply.”

Yikes.  Nell moved the girls along more quickly.  Anything that involved waking up the sleeping mothers of small babies edged into emergency territory.  Her programmer brain was also starting to come online.  Elorie’s only magic was Net power—and if Sophie was awake, maybe it wasn’t Ginia’s healing powers they were after. 

They filed into Sophie’s house.  The worry in the room would have hit Nell hard—if the basket on the table hadn’t already gotten her full attention.  It practically glowed radioactive with magic. 

Elorie turned, face taut with effort.  “I don’t think it’s Net power.  Similar, but I can’t see enough of the threads to untangle it.”

Sophie never looked away from the rosy-cheeked baby.  “Is it fire power, Nell?  We know it’s not water, air, or earth.”

Not any fire she’d ever known.  “No—but it’s one of the most complex spellcasts I’ve seen in a long time.”

The relief in the room was palpable.  Marcus shifted off the wall.  “You can see the threads?  Can you undo them?”

Nell studied the intricately woven lines.  Given three days or a full circle, maybe.  “What’s it doing?”  Unraveling a spell was dangerous work—doing it blind was insanity.

“Some of it’s a barrier.”  Marcus stood beside her, magically pointing.

Nell frowned.  “You can see it now?”

“I tapped into your thoughts.” 

Which normally would have earned him a serious kick in the shins, but given the circumstances, she’d give him a pass—his spellcasting talents were second only to hers.  She looked where he pointed.  “Yeah, okay, I can see that.  A three-layer barrier—one inside, one out, one figure eight.”

Figure-eight barriers had made Nell the premier spellcaster of her generation.  They kept magic stable without a caster—and there were only three other witches she knew of who could set them reliably.  Her brother, her youngest son, and the crabby witch standing beside her.  Analyzing more quickly now, she slid past the barrier lines.  “And a hell of a protection spell.”

“Double-sided.”  His words were calm as glass—his mind anything but.  “Protecting us as well as her.”

Nell was no stranger to babies who could rock the planet with their magic.  She focused on the rest of the spell—and the small baby in the basket began to wail.  Loudly. 

Two hands slid into the basket before anyone else could move, soft Irish murmurs doing their age-old job.

And the spell evaporated.

Moira turned around, Morgan tucked into her arms.  “Evan would mean us no harm.  The wee girl is hungry.  Let’s see what we can do about that, shall we?”

Nell stared at the space above the baby’s head.  Not five seconds ago, it had contained enough lines of magic to blast Fisher’s Cove to Mars.  “It’s gone.”

She could feel the same shock in Marcus’s mind—and then felt it double as Moira held out their tiny guest.

Marcus stepped back, horror radiating from every pore.  “I’m terrible with babies.”

Moira simply settled the baby in his resistant arms.

He glared at Nell with something akin to begging in his eyes.

There was no running away from destiny.  Five years of being Aervyn’s mother had tattooed that onto her soul.  She shook her head, feeling a large spurt of sympathy for the man destiny now targeted.  “Sorry.  She wasn’t sent to me.”

Chapter 4

They said that a man discovered his true friends in his greatest hour of need. 

Marcus stood in the middle of the gravel road that served as the main street of Fisher’s Cove, looked around at the emptiness, and tried to will his panic away.

Apparently he had no friends.

They’d handed him the baby, a bag of supplies, a couple of cookies.  And then Aunt Moira had patted his cheek and sent him on his way.  He presumed the cookies were for him.

The small bundle in his arms wiggled.  Hecate’s hells.  It was the middle of the night—didn’t babies sleep?

A small fist squirmed out of the blanket and started waving in the general direction of Marcus’s face.  He tucked it back inside and cursed as a foot emerged instead.  Sophie’s sausage-wrap contraption was rapidly coming unglued.

He had a second to form misanthropic thoughts about octopus babies, and then her face started to scrunch up.  He felt the wail before he heard it.  She looked like a baby bird, pink mouth gaped wide in loud search of sustenance.

Food.  Baby birds needed food.  Marcus juggled the bag on his shoulder, desperately seeking anything that resembled a bottle.  His fingers brushed against a ridiculous number of mysterious objects.  He had no wish to discover what the cold, wet, squishy things were.  Or the jingly ones.  Or why he needed two tons of supplies to last until morning.

Surely someone would rescue him in the morning.

He struck bottle gold just as the creature in his arms dialed up her volume several levels.  He took one suspicious look at the enormous end—that fit in a baby’s mouth?—and shoved it in the right general direction.  Hopefully she’d know what to do with it.

She mouthed the bottle with interest, the half-second of quiet music to his ears.  And then let loose the hell of a baby scorned.

Ye gods and little fishes.  Marcus glared at the bottle—he’d seen them work, dammit!  What was wrong with this one? 

The business end of it still looked wrong. 

And the child was still wailing like he’d shot her in the kneecaps. 
Quiet, girl-child—how do you expect me to think with all this racket? 

Perfect.  Now he was mindyelling at an infant.

A very quiet, very still infant.  Purple eyes watched him in utter fascination.  Amused in spite of himself, Marcus reached for her mind again.
  You can hear me this way, can you?  It’s a much more civilized way to communicate.  None of that screeching, all right?

He’d have sworn her mind felt vaguely amused.  Which was preposterous—babies understood simple mindsent emotions, nothing more.  Probably just gas.

Marcus looked over at the bottle again.  And noticed the clear cover disguising something that looked far more likely to dispense milk. 

Baby bottles had caps. 

Gods.  Clearly the designer hadn’t been holding a wailing baby.

If he survived the night, that someone was going to get a piece of his mind.  Presuming he had one left.  He flicked the cover off the bottle and watched it roll down the street in disgust.  Fantastically bad design.

And be damned if he was going to scrounge around in the gravel and dark for a piece of plastic.

This time, baby met bottle with happy sucking sounds.  Which made him weak-kneed with relief—he wasn’t entirely sure returning to Sophie’s door would be met with any response.  Aunt Moira had decided the baby was his, in the tone of voice that no smart witch in Fisher’s Cove ever ignored.

He’d tangle with his aunt in the morning—and the rest of the witch hive mind.  After they’d all gotten some sleep.

He juggled bag, bottle, and baby until it seemed safe to attempt to walk. “Just you and me, kid.  Time to go home.” 

Her bright eyes were half closed now, her hands and feet pushing softly against his chest.  Marcus pulled down his mental barriers as the leaking bliss in her mind touched his.  She was happy—no need to intrude.

He ignored the small, impertinent voice in his mind that wanted to kiss the top of her head.

Marcus Buchanan didn’t kiss babies.

~ ~ ~

Moira leaned back from the window, well satisfied.  “That was a lovely bit of work, ladies.”

Nell chuckled from the sofa, Ginia sound asleep in her lap.  “That was pretty mean.  The man’s hopeless with babies.”

Aye, he was.  “All the better to keep his mind off the rest of it, at least until morning.”

Sophie was still jiggling, walking Adam back to sleep.  “She’s stopped crying—he must be doing something right.”

“He found the business end of the bottle.”  Which would probably keep their wee Morgan satisfied for a few hours at least.  Moira smiled at her granddaughter, falling asleep beside Ginia on the couch.  “It’s good Elorie had some milk to spare.”

“Between us, we can probably make enough milk for one more.”

“That’ll work until Marcus figures out what’s in the bottle.”  Nell snickered again—quietly. 

Her nephew was rather squeamish about the whole process of breastfeeding and babies.  Silly man.  He’d been perfectly fine with it as a wee one cuddled up for food, his legs all tangled with Evan’s.

Evan.

The sadness flooded into Moira’s heart again.  Her sweet Irish leprechaun, full of tricks and mischief.  Apparently some things hadn’t changed in forty-some years.  Sending obscure messages from beyond the veil was one thing.  A baby wrapped in magic was an entirely different level of prank.