Jenn, lovable geek that she was, had installed show tunes on Morgan’s phone for several people who called her regularly. Her father got, “If I were a Rich Man,” and her mother, “I Will Follow Him.” Morgan chose, “With a Little Help from My Friends.” Rob had not been impressed with “The Nutty Professor” and insisted it be deleted. She should have known then.
“Hey, girlfriend,” Jenn piped.
“Hi. What’s up?”
“I hope it’s not too early. I wanted to catch you before you talked to your mom and dad today.”
“What’s wrong?” Her apprehension escalated.
“Nothing. I just wanted to let you know they were at your place when I went by to check on Mrs. T. We had a nice little chat.”
“And?”
“Morgan, they’re worried about you. I mean, about how you feel about them.”
“Mom didn’t say anything last night. I thought we’d cleared all that up before I left.” She sat on the bed and thought of the fine lines around her mother’s eyes. “I told them not to worry.”
“Well, I did too. But, they are who they are.” Jenn paused. “I just wanted to tell you that I sense that they feel like all this is somehow their fault.”
Morgan closed her eyes. She felt like she was doing a juggling act and she didn’t even know for sure what she was juggling. She wasn’t sure if Dorian wanted her here. He was being kind—now. There was something under the surface she couldn’t quite figure. Now, her parents.
“I’ll call them later,” she said.
“How’s Dorian?”
She smiled. If there was a male within ten miles, Jenn was ready to hear all the details.
“Not much to tell,” she said, waited a beat, then added, “except that he spent the night here last night.”
“What?” Jenn voice became shrill.
Morgan laughed. “Sorry. I couldn’t resist. Yes, he did. And no, we didn’t. I will explain later. I promise. I have to get over there now.” She stood and started smoothing the quilt back on the bed as she spoke. “Gotta run. Bye.” Smiling, she hung up on a flurry of questions.
She took her time putting the cottage to rights. She lifted the top of the glass jar in the bathroom and let the lavender perfume the space. By the time she opened the door to leave, the cottage sparkled and smelled inviting.
****
The temperature was already climbing into the eighties. A warm breeze ruffled the morning glory along the back fence. She studied the gazebo. The swing stirred in the air blowing through the bright white structure. Tea roses trailed upward, climbing the latticework, their delicate fragrance wafting around her. She took a step toward the gazebo when she caught a movement out of the corner of her eye. A quick glance in the direction of the shop showed her there was nothing where she’d seen the creature last night. The hair on her arm prickled. She swallowed and willed herself not to run as she hastened to the back door of the shop. When she tapped on the screen door, Meesha gave a welcoming bark.
“I’m in front. Come on in,” Dorian called.
She looked back at the garden. The picturesque cottage was nestled in a cornucopia of summer color. Her unease momentarily squelched, she followed the voices. Dorian stood behind the counter, wrapping dried herbs in brown paper. Deftly, he formed a small packet and secured it with twine. Five women clustered on the other side, tittering. All eyes turned to her. She smiled, but kept her eyes slighted averted.
“Ladies,” he said, amusement in his tone, “this is Morgan Briscoe, co-owner of The Shoppe of Spells.”
They rushed forward, surrounded her, touching her arm, shaking her hand. A bunch of chattering squirrels would have been less disturbing. She nodded, smiled, and was assailed by a flurry of comments and questions.
“You look so much like her, dear.”
“We are so glad you are finally here.”
“Will you be staying?”
“Where have you been living?”
“They never said anything about you, did they, Dorian?”
The bell above the door tinkled. All chattering stopped. Morgan looked up. A tall, svelte woman with short raven hair seemed to flow in, her eyes never leaving Morgan. She proprietarily moved around the counter, stepped up to Dorian, slid one bronze fingernail under his chin to turn him toward her and planted a kiss on his lips, which he rigidly returned.
Morgan noticed the muscle in his jaw tighten. The vixen took no notice. She flowed back around the counter and invaded the small circle of women surrounding Morgan, extending a hand full of long bronze fingernails.
“I’m Jasmine. But, I’m sure Dorian has already mentioned me.”
Morgan felt the tips of the nails dig, ever so slightly, into her hand. Determined not to acknowledge the discomfort, she tried to ignore the pressure. “No. Can’t say that he has,” she said, looking the other woman directly in the eyes. The battle lasted mere seconds before Jasmine let go. Morgan saw fire flash in her eyes before they turned, petulantly, toward Dorian.
“Jas, she just got here last evening.” There was no pretense in his tone.
Jasmine moved back around the counter and sidled up next to him, letting her fingers make a long, smooth stroke down his arm.
Morgan watched them. Every time she came in contact with him, an electric current sparked between them. To her vexation, Jasmine didn’t have the same problem. Now, why would that bother her?
The little group of woman moved as one toward the door, quietly, trying not to draw Jasmine’s attention to them.
Too late. “Leaving, ladies?” The vixen’s voice dripped venom.
Not turning, the smallest of the five whispered, “We just stopped by for some herbs.” “Sure you did,” the viper hissed. The little group scuttled out the door.
Morgan raised her head and looked directly at her.
Jasmine turned her full attention to Morgan. “Why look Dorian, she has the same weird eyes Melissa did.”
“That’s enough, Jas.” Dorian took her arm and led her toward the door.
“But, darling,” she purred.
“Morgan and I have business to discuss. I’ll call you later.”
Jasmine reached up and kissed him, narrowed her eyes, and glared at Morgan.
Morgan flashed her best smile.
Dorian reached around Jasmine, eased himself out of her clasp, and held the door.
“Until tonight.” She smiled a seductive promise.
Dorian didn’t answer, just closed the door behind her.
He thrust his hand through his hair. “Well…that went well,” he muttered to himself.
That one statement—one made often by her father—totally disarmed her.
“Coffee?”
“Sure.” She followed him into the kitchen.
Chapter Four
Morgan slipped into the same chair she’d occupied the night before and watched him pour the piping hot brew into two mugs. “Scone?” he asked, not turning around.
“Okay.” She shrugged. The little scene in the front of the store had robbed her of her appetite.
He set a white china plate in front of her. “I think they’re still warm.”
“You made scones?” she asked just before letting the warm cinnamon play on her tongue.
Her eyes widened. “Wow.”
“Teresa brought them down. She seems to think I’ll starve if she doesn’t bring something in the morning.”
She saw the pain, still fresh, cloud his eyes as he sat across from her.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” she said softly.
He acknowledged her with a nod. Meesha gave a whimper. Dorian broke off a small piece of scone and offered it to the dog. “Your breakfast is over there,” he said. As if in understanding, she gave his hand a quick lick and moved over to her food bowl.
“I’m sorry about in there…earlier,” he said.
“It’s okay. They didn’t mean anything.” She made careful reference to the group of women.
“Them?” he choked back a snort. “I don’t apologize for them. They are what they are.” He shook him head. “And, they’ll drive you crazy with their good intentions.” He rose and took her plate, talking back over his shoulder. “I was referring to Jasmine.”
“Your girlfriend?”
“Actually, no.” Dorian turned back around and leaned against the counter. “She would like it, if—”
The bell tinkled. He looked relieved. “Back to work.” He pushed away from the counter. “Come on, I will try to give you some shop initiation as we go.”
Morgan wondered what he would have said had they not been interrupted.
The next few hours passed quickly. For what it was, the little shop seemed to do a brisk business. Or, everyone in town was curious and wanted to see her. Items were purchased, introductions made. For Morgan, it was nice to be active in a shop again. Before long, she was able to find what someone needed and ring it up without asking Dorian for help. She loved the smells of the products and wanted to ask for the recipes so she could incorporate some into her own scents when she got home.
As the hours passed, Morgan began handling more and more up front, allowing Dorian to do more apothecary work. He would disappear through the door under the stairs, take ingredients into the kitchen and come out with the compounded item. She had so many questions. Occasionally, she caught him watching her. At first, she thought he was evaluating her work, but it was more than that. It was as though he was studying her, not just her work. Before she could ask, someone would come in and interrupt them. Each person was very pleasant and tended to linger, visiting with her until another customer took her attention.
Dorian had just suggested they break for lunch when a woman came in with an older man. Morgan could have sworn a cat had slipped in with them, the way that Mrs. T would do, given half a chance. When Meesha whined from the back room, she was sure of it. She walked around the counter just as two women opened the door to leave. The cat, or whatever it was, slinked past them and out the door. Morgan blinked. She would have sworn the outline shimmered.
She heard a commotion behind her. As she turned, the woman who’d arrived with the older man was hugging him.
“Papa?” She heard the catch in the woman’s voice. The woman’s eyes swam with tears.
“Cathy?” The old man looked at his daughter, then around, confusion etched on his face.
“Yes, Papa,” she said and hugged him again. She turned to Morgan. “He hasn’t said my name in three weeks.”
“Dorian?” the older man said. Dorian stepped forward.
“Melissa?” He looked at Morgan.
“No, Mr. Parker,” Dorian corrected gently, “this is Melissa’s daughter, Morgan.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Parker.” She turned to his daughter.
“I’m Cathy,” the woman smiled at Morgan.
“Does he need to sit down?” Morgan asked, watching the man’s gaze dart around the room.
“No…I think we’ll go home now.” She turned back to her father and guided him to the door. “Oh, Papa, it’s so nice to have you back.”
“I’ve had such a bad headache,” the old man commented.
Cathy quietly closed the door behind them, watching her father carefully.
“Do we need to call a doctor?” Morgan asked. “He said he’s been suffering from headaches. It could be a stroke.”
“It’s not,” Dorian said flatly, as he turned the sign over and locked the door. “We need to talk.”
She followed him into the kitchen. He didn’t stop. Meesha danced out the door as he held it open. Without another word, he walked over to the cottage and held that door, once again adjusting the top to stay open. It seemed a little warm to keep the door open, but Morgan said nothing, just followed him inside.
“You need to do as I say. It’s extremely important.”
She stopped, nerves tingling. “What?” she looked at him.
Dorian walked over to the carpet where he had dragged her last night and held his hand out to her. “Come,” he beckoned. She resisted.
“Hurry. Trust me, Morgan. You won’t get hurt. But we have to hurry.”
She stepped toward him. When he started to pull her into his arms, she stepped back. The shock was quick, stinging. “Okay, we’ll try it another way.” He held out both hands. “Five points of our bodies have to touch. We’ll try hands, feet, and forehead.” When she hesitated, he urged, “Hurry.” Then, softening his voice, added, “Please.”
Morgan stepped in front of him. He took both hands simultaneously. The jolt wasn’t as strong but she could still feel the current flow from him to her. He positioned his feet just outside of hers and bent his head, touching his forehead to hers. They were close, intimate. She could feel his breath as he spoke. “Close your eyes. Or open them. Just don’t move, whatever you do.”
“You’re frightening me.” She pulled back. He held fast.
“Don’t break contact,” he ordered. Frightened, but compelled by his urgency, she stepped back toward him.
Out of her peripheral vision, she saw the stones begin to glow. The fibers in the rug beneath her shimmered. She heard rustling. He held her hands tighter. She swallowed. She could feel sweat on her palm. Morgan wanted to pull back—she definitely didn’t want to sweat into his hands. Then she realized that was the least of her problems. Sitting over by the window, Meesha started to whine.
“Quiet, girl,” Dorian soothed.
The dog quieted but continued to stare at the rug.
“You’re still frightening me,” Morgan whispered.
“I’ll explain. Just don’t break contact until I do. Understand?” His voice was deep, firm.
“Yes.” She swallowed and held fast.
“The creature you saw last night was real. It’s what was making Mr. Parker sick. Together we can send it away. Several of them have been roaming free since Melissa and Thom died. With your help, I think we can control them.”
“What?” She impulsively yanked her hands. He held tight. She felt something brush against her leg. She glanced down. The rug glowed silver and she saw a faint violet outline of movement. She moved in closer to Dorian. Now, they stood, body to body. Far more points than five were touching. She heard the hum.
Morgan closed her eyes.
Oh, God.
She couldn’t be awake. This had to be a dream. One long continuation of her childhood nightmares. She would wake up any moment. She squeezed her eyes shut. Her body trembled. Sweat beaded on her upper lip. She stood stiff as a statue, afraid to budge. She could feel Dorian’s thumbs begin gently massaging the back of her hands, the back and forth motion her only reassurance.
Dorian stepped back. She held on, too frightened to let go.
“It’s okay,” he said softly and broke contact with her. The edges of the rug beneath her still shone a silvery hue. She leapt off the rug and looked around. Everything looked normal. Meesha stretched out and put her head down, but watched them, waiting for some command, some piece of attention. Like, Meesha, Dorian watched her.
“What happened?”
“It’s gone back through the portal.”
“Portal?” She edged the rug with her toe, lifting it. The shiny wood floor lay underneath, it’s pattern unmarred.
“Morgan, it’s a dimensional portal.”
“Yeah, sure.” She moved away from him, stopped and turned. “Like I know what that is.”
She studied him, waiting for some sarcastic punch line.
He didn’t say anything, just watched her.
She narrowed her eyes at him. “What kind of joke is this?” She headed into the bedroom and grabbed her purse and the folder. He stopped her as she headed into the bathroom for the small make-up kit she’d left on the sink. She jerked her arm away from the shock of his hand on her arm.
“And you—what is it with you? Every time you touch me, I get shocked. Yet, you don’t seem to feel it.”
To hell with the kit
. She could buy more make-up. She swung around toward the French doors.
“Oh, I feel it,” he said, the timber of his voice slightly lower. His eyes now dark like a stormy sea. He took one step toward her before he stopped. “Believe me, I feel it,” he all but whispered and turned away.
As she scrutinized him, heat curled in her stomach. A small throb punched deep inside.
Damn
. Needing to do something, she went back and grabbed her make-up kit.
She came out of the bathroom to find him standing in her path. She carefully stepped around him. She wasn’t going near him. “That…that thing…”
“…is gone,” he said. “Please. Let me explain. Give me a day. Then, if you wish, you can leave.”
She stopped, turned toward him, her eyes full of questions.
Dorian pushed his hair back from his forehead, closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
Who am I kidding?
I’m not sure I understand.
It would take more than a day with her. She knew nothing. He had practiced this speech for three weeks, since he’d first gotten word of Melissa and Thomas’s death and of her arrival. He knew it was coming—it had to come. He’d been fighting against the inevitable most of his life. He’d wasted a lot of time being angry that his destiny wasn’t his to make. Angry with a woman he hadn’t met. What he hadn’t anticipated was her naiveté. She’d had no idea of her future—of him. He looked at her. Her face was flushed. Perspiration dampened her upper lip. She watched him warily, like a frightened wild animal ready to bolt. He wasn’t sure what he would do if she left. That had never been considered. So many things hadn’t been considered. Suddenly, he was pissed at them for dying.
“Let’s get out of here.” His voice was edgy. “We’ll go get something to eat. You’re probably hungry.”
As if by suggestion, Morgan’s stomach rumbled. Her hand went to her stomach. “I’m not hungry,” she started to say. Her stomach gave another loud protest.
“It’s natural to be hungry afterward…” He was just relaying what Thom had told him…he didn’t know for sure. It was his first time as well. He’d been taught. And practiced with Mel. But never the real thing. As long as they were alive, nothing happened.
He walked to the door and reattached the top and bottom and stood waiting for her. She walked past him and stepped into the bright sunlight, stopping just out of reach. She waited for him to precede her. He led her around the side of the building, along a plant-lined path to a high front gate. She stopped several feet behind him.
“Are you going to walk behind me all the way to Abbott’s?” he asked.