Heaven and Earth by Nora Roberts (3)

“I’m fine, but I appreciate your concern.”

“Fine, my ass.” Ripley took three long strides away, three long strides back. Waved her arms. “Why don’t you sell tickets?”

“He’s not a gawker, Ripley, and you know it. He’s an intelligent man with an open mind. I trust him.”

Mia angled her head, and those witch-smoke eyes were both amused and puzzled. “I’m surprised you don’t.”

“It’s not a matter of trust.” But she rolled her shoulders as though she felt a twinge. “Just take some time, think it through before you do something you can’t take back.”

“He’s part of it,” Mia said quietly. “You already know that. I feel something for him. Not sexual,” she added. “But intimate, nonetheless. A warmth without heat. If there’d been heat, I’d have acted on it. He wasn’t for me.”

She said the last pointedly. “What you feel for him is different, and it unsettles you. If it was just sexual attraction, you’d have had sex with him.”

“How do you know I haven’t?” When Mia merely smiled, Ripley cursed. “And this has nothing to do with anything.”

“It has all to do with everything. You’ll make your own choices, in your own time. I’m going to ask Nell to join us, if she’d like.” Mia opened the car door as Ripley stood and steamed. “You’re welcome, of course.”

“If I wanted to join the circus, I’d have learned how to juggle.”

“Your choice, as I said.” She climbed in, then lowered her window. “He’s an exceptional man, Ripley. I envy you.”

That statement had Ripley’s mouth dropping open as Mia drove away.

Mac was packing up when Ripley came back. He’d gotten all he believed he was going to get that day, but he intended to return when the atmosphere wasn’t quite so volatile. In any case, he needed to do some repairs and needed to settle himself as well. When Ripley’s shadow crossed the opening of the cave, he tucked his Palmcorder into its bag. “You tried to talk her out of meeting with me.”

“That’s right.”

“Is that how you refrain from interfering in my work?”

“This is different.”

“Why don’t you give me your definition of interference?”

“Okay, you’re pissed off. I’m sorry, but I’m not going to keep my mouth shut when someone I . . . someone I know makes a decision because she’s whacked out emotionally. It isn’t fair.”

“You think I’d take advantage of whatever it is that upset her?”

“Wouldn’t you?”

He was quiet for a moment, then shrugged. “I don’t know. She has several days to change her mind.”

“She made the deal, she’ll keep it. That’s how she works.”

“So do you. You’re like two pieces of the same puzzle. What caused the rift between you?”

“It’s old news.”

“No, it’s not. She hurt and you bled for her. I watched you. Now you’d protect her if you could.” He picked up two of his bags, straightened. “You’re the same with Nell. You’re a shield for those who matter to you. Who stands for you, Ripley?”

“I can take care of myself.”

“I don’t doubt it, but that’s not the point. They stand for you, and that’s what you don’t quite know how to handle.”

“You don’t know me well enough to know what I can handle.”

“I’ve known you all my life.”

She reached out to stop him before he walked outside again. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“I asked you once about your dreams. One day, I’ll tell you about mine.”

He’d put dreams in her mind, that’s what she told herself even as she was sucked into them. Knowing it was a dream didn’t stop the action.

She was on the beach with a storm charging in like a runaway train. And the storm was her fury. There were others with her, shadows and lights. Love, and the barbed trap of its opposite. A bolt sliced out of the sky, a silver blade that cleaved the earth in two. The world around her was madness, and the taste of it wildly tempting.

The choice is yours, now and always.

Power snapped. And stung. The choice, now and always. She could reach out, clasp the hand that beckoned, that offered a bridge to the light. Or she could stay in the dark and feed. She was hungry.

Ripley awoke weeping, with images of destruction still reeling in her mind.

 

Chapter Eleven

She rarely sought counsel. In her experience advice was never easy to swallow. But the dream had broken her back.

Half a dozen times during the day she’d nearly dumped it all on Zack. He’d always been there for her, and their friendship was as solid and true as their blood tie. But she was forced to admit she wanted a woman’s shoulder. Mia and Nell were out of the question. They were too tightly connected. But there was one who was linked to all of them, and who could always be counted on to speak her mind. Whether or not you cared to hear it.

She went to Lulu. She waited until she thought that Lulu had had time enough to get home from the bookstore but not enough to settle in too comfortably. After she’d waded through the lawn art, adjusted her eyes to the virulent colors that Lulu habitually selected to paint her house, and knocked on the back door, Ripley was pleased to see her timing was good.

Lulu had changed out of her work clothes into a sweatshirt that read, “Coffee, Chocolate, Men . . . Some things are just better rich.” She had an unopened bottle of wine in her hand and was wearing ratty red slippers and the faintly irritated look of a woman who’d been interrupted.

“What’s up with you?” she demanded.

It wasn’t the warmest of welcomes, but it was Lulu. “Got a minute?”

“I guess I do.” She turned away and clomped back to the counter for her corkscrew. “Want a glass of this?”

“Wouldn’t mind it.”

“Good thing I didn’t light that joint.”

Ripley winced. “Damn, Lu.”

Lulu let out a cackling laugh and popped the cork. “Just kidding. Always could get you. Haven’t had a toke in . . .” She sighed nostalgically. “Twenty-six years. Your daddy was the first and last to bust me. Confiscated my pretty little plant, and my stash. Told me he knew I could get more where that came from if I had a mind to, or I could keep on working for Mia’s grandmother—and tending Mia, and he figured I had the good sense to know which I needed more. Always liked your daddy.”

“That’s a heartwarming story, Lu. Just chokes me up.”

Lulu poured wine into two glasses, then sat and propped her feet on one of the kitchen chairs. “What brings you to my door, Deputy?”

“Can we start with some light conversation, so I can work up to it?”

“Okay.” Lulu sipped, savoring the first taste of the end of the workday. “How’s your sex life?”

“That’s sort of part of what I’m going to work up to.”

“Never thought I’d see the day when Let-Er-Rip came to my door for a sex talk.”

Before she could stop herself, Ripley squirmed. “Jeez, Lu, nobody calls me that anymore.”

Lulu grinned. “I do. Always did admire your up-front approach to things. Got man trouble, baby doll?”

“Sort of. But—”

“Nice-looking man. Dee-licious.” Lulu smacked her lips. “Not your usual type, of course. Kinda slow and thoughtful, and a little on the sweet side. Not so sweet he hurts your teeth or anything. Just a nice flavor. If I were thirty years younger—”

“Yeah, yeah, you’d have a taste of him yourself.” Sulking, Ripley propped her chin on her fists.

“Don’t smart-ass me. Anyway, it’s nice to see you realize brains are sexy. So, how’s he rate in the sack?”

“We haven’t been there.”

Rather than surprising her, the statement confirmed Lulu’s recent observations. She set down her glass, pursed her lips. “Figured, and that tells me one thing. He scares you.”

“I’m not scared of him.” Accusations of that nature always put Ripley’s back up, especially when they were true. “I’m just being cautious and taking my time. It’s . . . complicated.”

Lulu pressed her fingertips together in a kind of prayer tent. “Here is some wisdom of the ages, grasshopper.”

Despite herself, Ripley grinned. “Who’s the smart-ass?”

“Shut up and listen. The wisdom is this: sex is better when it’s complicated.”

“Why?”

“Because. When you can snatch the pebbles out of my hand, you will know the answer for yourself.”

“I really like him. I mean really. ”

“What’s bad about that?”

“Nothing. I just wish, sort of, that we’d gone ahead with it right off the bat so there wouldn’t be all these jitters and wondering and buildup so it all seems so . . .”

“Important.”

The breath whizzed out of Ripley’s lungs. “Okay, yeah. Important. Worse, I think he knows it’s important, and if he does, it means when it all comes down I’m not going to be really, you know, in charge.”

Lulu just sipped. And waited.

“And that sounds really stupid, doesn’t it? Okay.” Ripley nodded, oddly settled on one very important level. “I think maybe I’ve got that now.”

“There’s more.”

“Yeah. Mia’s going to let him observe a ritual on Friday,” Ripley blurted out. “And if Mia’s involved, Nell will be, too. She’s only doing it because she was upset yesterday. At the cave . . . you know, the cave. She got all twisted up, and it doesn’t matter how quick she manages to untwist again, it shakes her. She’s just doing this to prove she can handle everything.”

“She can handle it,” Lulu said quietly. “If you’d stuck with her all those years ago, you’d have a better grip on what she can handle.”

“I couldn’t.”

“That’s done. Matters more what you’re going to do now.”

“I don’t know what to do. That’s the whole thing.”

“Are you looking for me to tell you?”

Ripley lifted her glass. “I guess I wanted to know what you’d say, what you thought. This messes me up, Lu. It’s coming back on me, in me. Oh, fuck, I don’t know how to explain it. I wanted it to go away. I made it go away. Now it’s like there are these little openings all over the place, and I can’t plug them all.”

“It never did sit comfortable on you. Some things aren’t meant to be comfortable.”

“Maybe I was worried it would get too comfortable. I don’t have Mia’s control, or Nell’s compassion. I don’t have those things.”

Circles, Lulu thought. They always came around. “No, what you’ve got is passion, and an innate sense of right and wrong—and a need to see it served up. That’s why the three of you make the circle, Ripley, bringing to it the best of yourselves.”

“Or the worst.” And that was her fear. Her terror. “That’s the way it went down three hundred years ago, if you buy into it.”

“You can’t change what was, but you can what’s coming. But you can’t hide from either. It sounds to me like you’re thinking you’ve been hiding out long enough.”

“I never thought of it as hiding. I’m not a coward. Even after we dealt with Remington I could pretty much pull it back, maintain the status quo. But since Mac, it keeps slipping out of my fingers.”

“So you’re worried that if you’re with him, you won’t be able to pull anything back. Not just what you are, but what you feel.”

“That’s about it.”

“So you’re going to tiptoe around.” Lulu let out a huff of breath, shook her head. “Worry and fret and whatnot about what might be instead of swinging into the saddle and finding out what is.”

“I don’t want to hurt the ones who matter to me.”

“Doing nothing sometimes hurts more than doing something. Life doesn’t come with a guarantee, which is just as well, because most guarantees are bullshit.”

“Well, when you put it that way.” There was nothing and no one like Lulu, Ripley thought, for clearing out the murk. “I guess I’ve been on the edge of doing something for a while now, and not doing it is making me crazy. And stupid,” she added, as she would have said to few others.

“You gonna take that last step now?”

Ripley drummed her fingers on the table, then sighed. “Let’s say I’m going to take a step and see what happens next. Can I use the phone?”

“What for?”

“I need to call in a pizza order.”

It took Mac most of the day to fix the sensor, and even then it was only jury-rigged. It would take a day or two to get the replacement parts, and with Friday looming, he was in a crunch. I’m not sure what to expect on Friday, he wrote. It’s better that way. It’s a mistake to go into an experience anticipating specific results. Closes off the mind to possibilities. I do, now, have a theory on the events in the Logan cave. The Gaelic phrase carved into the cave wall translates to “My heart is your heart. Ever and always.”

While it will take time to ascertain the age of the carving (send rubbing and scraping to lab, ASAP) I continue to believe it was made within the last twenty years. Based on that, the location of the cave, and Mia Devlin’s reaction to finding me and Ripley there, it’s a logical assumption that the cave has particular and personal meaning for her. The carving, I believe, was done by her or for her.

The Logans had a son, Samuel, who was raised on the island. No one speaks of him in connection with Mia. It’s a studied, deliberate omission, which naturally leads me to conclude that he and Mia Devlin were involved, most probably were lovers before he moved off-island. This, in turn, may be the foundation for the last step of the legend, which is mirrored by the descendants of the original sisters.

Nell to Zack being the first, and hypothetically, Mia to Logan being the last. Which leaves Ripley in the middle. Ripley and . . .

His fingers fumbled, so he stopped, sat back, rubbed his eyes under his glasses. He reached absently for his coffee mug and knocked it off the table. The obligatory cleanup gave his system time to settle. I’m connected to the pattern, he continued. I sensed it before I came here, and with the documents I’ve yet to share with the others, I’ve formed certain theories. But theories and reality are different matters, with different effects on those involved. On me. It’s more difficult than I’d imagined to maintain objectivity, to stay in the role of observer, documenter when . . . I can’t stop thinking about her. Trying to separate feelings from professional judgment is hard enough, but how can I be sure those feelings don’t stem from professional interest?

“And glands,” he muttered, but he didn’t write that down.

Does Deputy Ripley Todd fascinate me because she has a preternatural gift that has come down to her over three centuries? Or because she’s a woman who has managed to attract me on every possible level?

I’m beginning to think it’s both, and that I’m already in too deep to care where these feelings come from.

He sat back again, and as his concentration level dipped, he tuned in to the beeps and buzzes of his equipment in the living room. He shoved away from the little desk, rapping his knee sharply on its underside, then limped cursing out of his office.

Ripley stood inside the door, scowling at his machines.

“Don’t you ever turn these things off?”

“No.” He had to resist rubbing his stomach. It ached, just looking at her.

“I knocked.”

“I was in the office, working. Didn’t hear you.”

“You’re lucky I’m persistent.” She held up the cardboard box she carried. “Pizza delivery. Large and loaded, as requested. In the mood?”

His mouth watered, and his belly tightened. “It so happens I’ve been craving a pizza for weeks now.”

“Me, too.” She set it down, on top of what happened to be a machine that cost in the high six figures. She shrugged out of her coat and let it fall on the floor. She pulled off her cap, tossed it in the general direction of her coat as she walked toward him. “Hungry?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Good. I’m starved.” She leaped, hitching herself up, wrapping her legs around his waist and crushing her mouth down on his.

He stumbled back two full steps. Every rational thought slipped out of his brain and drained out of his ears.

“Sex now,” she said, breathless as she raced her lips over his face, bit his neck. “Pizza later. Good for you?”

“Excellent.” He staggered toward the bedroom, made it as far as the doorway before he had to brace her against the jamb. “Just . . . let me . . .” He changed the angle of the kiss, sinking deep until her moan echoed his.

“I taste you all the time.” He scraped his teeth along her throat. “All the time. Drives me crazy.”

“Me too. I want you naked.” She began to tug at his sweatshirt.

“Wait. Slow down.”

“Why?” Laughing, she did tormenting things to his ear with her tongue.

“Because . . . Jesus. Because I’ve been thinking about this a while.” His fingers dug into her hips as he started toward the bed. “Feels like centuries. I don’t want to rush it.” He managed to get a handful of her hair, to draw her head back until their eyes met. “I want to savor it. Savor you. I want . . .” He leaned in, nibbled at her mouth. “To take years to make love with you. To touch you,” he continued as he lowered her to the bed. “Taste you.” Gently, he lifted her arms over her head. She quivered beneath him. “You talk a good game,” she managed, “for a geek.”

“Let’s see how it plays.” He traced the exposed line of her belly when her sweater rode up. “With a little teamwork.”

He lowered his head, and at the last instant angled away so his lips rubbed over her jaw. Her body was taut under his, pumping off energy in almost visible waves. He wanted that, all of that. But first he wanted her limp, weak and stunned from pleasure.

Her hands flexed under his, but she didn’t struggle. Her heart pounded against his, and her lips yielded when he asked for them. That alone was arousing, knowing she would let him set both pace and tone. She was strong enough, what she felt was strong enough, to give him that gift. Now, he would show her he treasured it.

She’d never known a man who could light so many fires with his mouth alone. Even as she yearned for his hands, her bones, her muscles, melted under the heat. She sighed, and surrendered to it. Her pulse thickened. Her mind blurred.

When he released her hands, her arms felt soft, heavy. She lifted them, slipping off his glasses, tossing them aside so she could frame his face to bring his mouth back to hers again. He touched her now, a skim and glide of fingers as he inched her sweater up, off. A lazy journey over her breasts just at the edge of her bra, then a teasing dance over the center clasp. She tugged his sweatshirt off, let her hands roam in turn.

Then his mouth came to hers again and brought out a quiet sound of pleasure. Weightless, she floated on the kiss. She nuzzled, stroked, contented as a cat when his mouth skimmed the curve of her shoulder.

Shivered lightly in anticipation as his tongue trailed down the side of her neck. Moaned when it dipped under cotton to tease her nipple. Then cried out, arching helplessly as his mouth closed, hot and hungry, over her breast. She fought for breath, for balance. Her fingers dug into the bedclothes as her system was plunged abruptly from contentment to desperation.

It was like throwing open a door to a furnace, he thought. A man could be consumed by all that heat. Still he craved more. He snapped open her bra, found flesh. He felt her gather beneath him—storm clouds merging into one electric mass—and shuddered at her strangled cry of release. As she went limp again, he moved down her, down the lean, taut lines of disciplined female form. Angles and curves, dips and lovely, lovely lines. He wanted to wallow in them, exploit them, absorb them. The jump of her pulse here, then here, matched the leap of his own. And the taste of her grew warmer. Stronger. Until he wondered how he’d ever lived without it.

She was helpless. Had never been helpless. Had never been taken with such ruthless patience. He owned her, and there was a thrill in it. In knowing she would let him do anything he pleased. In knowing she would enjoy it. Her skin was damp, hot. It seemed he knew every nerve in her body and would send each quivering, one by one. She reached for him, opened to him, gave to him with a freedom she’d never felt for another. Every move seemed impossibly slow, as if they swam through water. His body trembled for hers, his heart raced. She felt it all, and the tensing bunch of his muscles under her stroking hands. When his senses were full of her, the scent, the flavor, the texture, he rose over her. Waiting, waiting until those eyes, clouded now with pleasure, opened.

He slid into her. Deep, deeper. He took her, long, slow thrusts until her breath began to sob and his blood to pound. He watched the pulse in the lovely line of her throat rage as she came again.

Her arms slid bonelessly from around him. “I can’t.”

“Just let me,” he replied as he pressed his mouth to hers again. “Let me.”

As if spellbound, she rose with him, fell with him, and felt the impossible need build yet again.

“Go with me.” She gripped his hips, groaned as she felt herself being swept up one more time. He already was. His world wavered. Burying his face in the dark spread of her hair, he lost himself. She felt . . . perfect. As if her skin had turned to velvet dusted with gold. Every ounce of tension had drained away. In fact, she didn’t see how she could possibly worry about anything ever again. Great sex, she decided, was the best of all possible drugs.

She wasn’t much of a cuddler afterward, and had never been big on pillow talk. But here she was, wrapped cozily around Mac, snuggled in because it felt exactly right. Her legs were tangled with his, her head cradled on his shoulder, her arm hooked around his neck. What made it even better was the way he held on to her, as if he was just as content to stay there for the next two or three years himself.

“Did you learn some of those moves by studying the sexual habits of primitive societies?”

He rubbed his cheek against her hair. “I like to think I put my own spin on them.”

“You do good work.”

“Right back at you.”

“I threw your glasses on the floor. You want to watch out you don’t step on them.”

“Sure. I meant to tell you something before.”

“What?”

“You’re beautiful.”

“Get out. You’re in a sexual haze.”

“You have all this dense, dark hair. And I keep wanting to bite that heavy top lip of yours. Add that really swell body, and it’s a great package.”

When she tipped her head up and stared at him, he blinked until he had her in focus. “What?” he asked.

“I’m just trying to think when’s the last time I heard anyone use the word ‘swell’ that way in a sentence. You’re really weird, Mac. Cute, but weird.” She lifted her head just enough to nip at him. “Need fuel,” she said. “Want pizza.”

“Okay, I’ll get it.”

“Nope, I brought it, I’ll get it. You just stay where you are. And stay naked,” she added as she rolled over him and off the bed. “By the way, you’ve got a really swell body, too.”

She strolled into the other room, stretched luxuriously. Limber and naked, she went into the kitchen for a couple of beers to go with the pizza. She grabbed a pile of napkins, then did a quick spin. Could she feel any better? she wondered. Not just the sex, she thought with a dreamy sigh that would have embarrassed her if she hadn’t been so loose. It was Mac. He was so sweet and smart, so steady without being boring or stuffy about it. She loved listening to him, watching the way his mouth quirked just a little higher on the left corner than the right when he grinned. And the way his eyes got all blurred and unfocused when he was thinking. The way his hair, all dark blond and thick, was never quite tidy.

Then there was all that fascinating intensity balanced by the easy humor. He was the first man she’d ever let herself be involved with, she admitted, who had so many layers. He wasn’t simple, and didn’t expect her to be. And wasn’t that lovely? With the bottles clanging cheerfully together, she wandered back into the living room to retrieve the pizza. Happiness soared through her, and before she realized what was happening, her heart did a slow turn, a kind of waltz, then suddenly fell.

Her eyes popped wide. “Oh, my God!”

Before she could react to the abrupt and slightly terrifying realization that she’d fallen in love, every machine in the cottage went into action. Her head rang with the sound of them. Beeping, squealing, buzzing, humming. Needles whipped, lights flashed. And she stood frozen in shock. Mac gave a shout and leaped out of bed. He sprinted toward the living room, tripped over a pair of sneakers and went sprawling. Cursing, he scrambled up and ran naked into the room.

“What’d you touch? What’d you do?”

“Nothing. Nothing.” Ripley gripped the bottles like lifelines. Later, she told herself—much later—she would look back at this and it would all be so ridiculous she’d crack a rib laughing. But for now she could only stare as Mac rushed from machine to machine, calling out readings, actually patting his naked body as if he might find a pocket in his skin where a pencil was hiding.

“Man! Man! Would you look at this?” He pulled up sheets of paper, holding them almost to his nose as he scanned the printout. “Major events. The first one nearly an hour ago. I think. I can’t read the time. Can’t see a fucking thing on the graphs. Where the hell are my glasses? Holy cow, fried another sensor. This is great !”

“Mac.”

“Yeah, uh-huh.” He waved a hand at her as if she were a vaguely annoying fly. “I just want to rewind the video-tape, see if there were any visible manifestations.”

“You’d better put some clothes on because you’re a little . . . vulnerable to injury at the moment.”

“Hmm? What was that?” he asked distractedly.

“Why don’t we both get dressed, and I’ll let you get back to your work.”

Only an idiot, he thought, would turn a naked woman away to play with toys. Especially when the woman was Deputy Ripley Todd. Dr. MacAllister Booke was no idiot.

“No. Let’s have pizza.” He picked up the box, and the scent of it, of her, stirred his appetite again. “I’ll go over the data tomorrow. It’s not going anywhere.” He went to her, skimmed his knuckles over her cheek. “I don’t want you going anywhere either.”

Fair enough, she decided. She would go over her internal data tomorrow, too. “Watch your step this time. I don’t want you falling on the box and smashing dinner.”

Ordering herself to settle down, she walked with him back to the bedroom. “How’d you get the scar on your butt?”

“Oh, I sort of fell off a cliff.”

“Jesus, Mac.” They settled on the bed, the pizza between them, and she handed him a beer. “Only you.”

She hadn’t meant to stay. Sleeping over was entirely different, in Ripley’s view, from sleeping with. It added another layer of intimacy that, too often, got sticky. But somehow, without her being entirely sure how he managed it, she ended up squeezing into the tiny shower with him the next morning. He proved to be very adept in tight places. As a result she was feeling loose, a bit muggy in the brain, and vaguely embarrassed when she let herself into her own house. Her hope was to sneak upstairs, change into sweats for a run on the beach, and act as if nothing much had happened. That hope was dashed as Nell called out from the kitchen.

“Is that you, Ripley? Coffee’s fresh.”

“Damn it,” she muttered under her breath and reluctantly changed directions. She was mortally afraid there was about to be a girl talk and hadn’t a clue how she should handle it. There Nell was, working in the kitchen that was alive with the homey scents of baking, looking daffodil-fresh as she filled another round of muffin tins.

One look and Ripley felt bedraggled, awkward, and ravenous.

“Want breakfast?” Nell asked cheerfully.

“Well, maybe. No.” She sucked it in. “I really want to get a run in first. Ah . . . I guess I should’ve called last night to let you know I wouldn’t be home.”

“Oh, that’s all right. Mac called.”

“I just didn’t think . . .” In the act of reaching into the fridge for a bottle of water, she froze. “Mac called?”

“Yes. He thought we might worry.”

“He thought,” Ripley repeated. Which made her, what? An inconsiderate idiot. “What did he say?”

“That the two of you were having hot monkey sex and not to worry.” She glanced up from her muffins, dimples flashing as she laughed uproariously at the horrified shock on Ripley’s face. “He just said you were with him. I inferred the hot monkey sex.”

“Aren’t you a laugh riot in the morning?” Ripley countered and twisted the top off the water bottle. “I didn’t know he’d called you. I should have done it.”

“It doesn’t matter. Did you . . . have a good time?”

“I’m walking in at, what, seven forty-five in the morning. You should be able to infer something from that.”

“I would, except you seem a little cranky.”

“I’m not cranky.” Scowling, Ripley glugged down water. “Okay, it just seems to me that he could have told me he was going to call you, or suggested I call you, but either way that would’ve been assuming I intended to stay the night, which I didn’t, but which he obviously decided I was going to, which is pretty pushy if you ask me because it wasn’t as if he actually asked me to stay in the first damn place.”

Nell waited a beat. “Huh?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know what I just said. God.” Irritated with herself, she ran the cold bottle over her forehead. “I’m just weirded out over stuff.”

“Over him?”

“Yes. I don’t know. Maybe. I’ve got all these feelings piling up and I’m not ready for them. I need to run.”

“I’ve done a lot of running myself,” Nell said quietly.

“I mean on the beach.” At Nell’s sympathetic nod, Ripley sighed. “Okay, I get you, but it’s too early for metaphors.”

“Then let me ask one straight question. Are you happy with him?”

“Yeah.” Ripley’s stomach tied itself into slippery knots. “Yeah, I am.”

“It wouldn’t hurt to just go with that for a while, and see what happens next.”

“Maybe I would. Maybe I could. But I’ve figured out that he’s always one step ahead of me. Sneaky bastard.” She gave up, sat. “I think I’m in love with him.”

“Oh, Ripley.” Nell leaned down, took Ripley’s face in her hands. “So do I.”

“I don’t want to be.”

“I know.”

Ripley hissed out a breath. “How do you know so damn much?”

“I’ve been where you are, and not so long ago. It’s scary and exciting, and it just changes everything.”

“I liked things the way they were. Don’t tell Zack,” she said, then immediately regretted it. “What am I saying? Of course you’ll tell Zack. It’s like a rule. Just maybe give it a few days first. I may get over this.”

“Okay.” Nell walked over to transfer baking trays.

“It could be I’ve just got the hots for him and it’s messing me up.”

“I suppose.”

“And if last night’s any indication, we’ll probably burn each other out in a couple of weeks, max.”

“It happens.”

Ripley tapped her fingers on the table. “If you’re just going to stand over there and humor the fool, I’m changing. I’m going for my run.”

Nell set the muffins on the rack to cool, totally content with herself as Ripley stormed out. “Go ahead and run,” she said softly. “Bet he catches you.”

 

 

Chapter Twelve

Considering that he was criminally insane, Evan Remington had his good days. He could, depending on what pictures were wheeling through his mind, be fairly lucid, even momentarily charming. There were moments, according to one of the nurses Harding interviewed, when you could see the sly intellect that had made him a top Hollywood power broker. Other times, he just sat, and drooled.

To Harding he had become a fascination that was edging toward an obsession. Remington was a man in his prime, by all accounts a brilliant operator of the entertainment machine, one who had come from wealth and privilege. And yet he’d been brought to nothing. By a woman. The woman was also a fascination. A quiet, biddable little mouse, if you accepted the opinion of many who’d known her during her marriage. A courageous survivor who had escaped a nightmare, if you went with the popular feminist take.

Harding wasn’t convinced that she was either. But he was willing to consider she was something more. There were so many angles there. Beauty and the beast, destroyed by love, the monster behind the mask. Already he had mountains of notes, reams of tape, photographs, copies of police and medical reports. He also had the beginnings of a rough first draft of the book he was certain would make him very rich and very famous.

What he didn’t have, as yet, were solid personal interviews with the key players. He was willing to invest a lot of time and effort into acquiring them. While he followed Nell’s trail across the country, forming impressions, gathering data, he flew back to visit Remington regularly. And each time he did, he was fueled with more purpose, more ambition, and an underlying anger that baffled him. The anger would fade, but it came back stronger every time. Most of the travel was dumped on his expense account, and though he shot off stories to the magazine, he was well aware that there would come a day of reckoning. He was already dipping into his personal funds, couldn’t seem to stop himself.

Whereas once he had been proud of his magazine work, had enjoyed, even thrived on, the pace and demands of it, he now found himself resenting every hour he had to spend fulfilling his professional obligations. The Remington/Todd story was like a fever burning in him. On Valentine’s Day—and he would always find that wonderfully ironic—he made his first real connection with Evan Remington.

“They think I’m crazy.”

It was the first time Remington had spoken to him without prompting. It took everything Harding had not to jump at the quiet, reasonable sound of his voice. He gazed at the recorder to be sure the tape was running.

“Who thinks that?”

“The people here. My traitorous sister. My adulterous wife. Have you met my wife, Mr. Harding?”

Something icy seemed to slick the inside of Harding’s gut at being called by name. He had introduced himself on every visit, but he’d never believed, never really considered, that Remington had heard, or understood.

“No, I haven’t. I was hoping you would tell me about her.”

“What can I tell you about Helen?” There was a sigh, a sound of patient amusement. “She deceived me. She’s a whore, a cheat, a liar. But she’s my whore. I gave her everything. I made her beautiful. She belongs to me. Has she tried to seduce you?”

The spit in Harding’s mouth dried up. Ridiculous as it seemed, it felt as if Remington could see into his mind. “I haven’t met . . . your wife, Mr. Remington. I hope to have the opportunity to meet her. When I do, I’d be happy to take her a message from you.”

“Oh, I have plenty to say to Helen. But it’s private ,” he said, whispering the last word as a slow smile curved his lips. “Many things between a man and his wife should be private, don’t you agree? What happens between them in the sanctity of their home is no one’s concern.”

Harding offered a sympathetic nod. “It’s difficult, isn’t it, to balance that privacy when you’re a man who has the public’s attention.”

Remington’s eyes clouded, fog over ice, and began to dart around the room. The intelligence, the crafty humor in them, had vanished. “I need a phone. I seem to have misplaced my phone. Where’s the damn concierge?”

“I’m sure he’ll be right here. Could I ask you what it was about Mrs. Remington that first attracted you to her?”

“She was pure, simple, like clay waiting to be formed. I knew immediately she was meant to be mine. I sculpted her.” His hands flexed at the ends of his restraints. “I didn’t know how deeply flawed she was, how much work would be involved. I devoted myself to her.”

He leaned forward, his body vibrating as it strained. “Do you know why she ran?”

“Why?”

“Because she’s weak, and stupid. Weak and stupid. Weak and stupid.” He said it again and again, like a chant as his fisted hands pounded. “I found her because I’m not.” He turned his wrist as if checking the Rolex that was no longer there. “It’s time I left here, isn’t it? Time I fetched Helen and took her home. She has a lot of explaining to do. Call the bellman for my bags.”

“He’s . . . on his way. Tell me what happened that night on Three Sisters Island .”

“I don’t remember. Anyway, it’s not important. I have a plane to catch.”

“There’s plenty of time.” Harding kept his voice low and soothing as Remington began to squirm in his chair. “You went to find Helen. She was living on the island. You must have been pleased to find her alive.”

“Living in a hovel, hardly more than a tool shed. Little bitch. Pumpkins on the porch, a cat in the house. Something wrong with the house.” He licked his lips. “It doesn’t want me to be there.”

“The house didn’t want you?”

“She cut her hair. I didn’t give her permission to do that. She whored herself. She has to be punished, has to be taught. Has to remember who’s in charge. She makes me hurt her.” Remington shook his head.

“She begs for it.”

“She asked you to hurt her?” Harding asked cautiously. Something stirred in him, something ugly and unrecognizable. Something that was aroused by the thought.

It shocked and appalled him, nearly made him pull back once more. But then Remington was speaking.

“She doesn’t learn. Can she be that dense? Of course not. She enjoys punishment. She ran when I killed her lover. But he came back from the dead,” Remington went on. “I had a right to kill him for trying to take what belonged to me. A right to kill them both. Who are all those people?”

“What people?”

“In the woods,” Remington said impatiently. “The women in the woods. Where did they come from?

What business is this of theirs? And him! Why didn’t he die when I killed him? What kind of world is this?”

“What happened in the woods?”

“The woods.” He rubbed his lips together as his breath began to rush through them. “There are monsters in the woods. Beasts hiding behind my face. Crawling inside me. Light, in a circle. Fire. Too many voices. Screaming? Who is that screaming? Hang the witch. ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.’ Kill them all, before it’s too late!”

He was screaming now, howling like a madman. As aides rushed in, ordered Harding to leave, he picked up his tape recorder with a trembling hand. And didn’t see the crafty gleam in Remington’s eyes.

Ripley slogged her way through paperwork. She’d lost the coin toss with Zack, which still irritated her, since the false spring was hanging on. It would be close to sixty degrees by afternoon, and she was stuck on desk duty. The only good part was that he wasn’t around, so she was free to sulk and call him nasty names under her breath. When the door of the station house opened, she prepared to launch a few at him, face-to-face. But it was Mac who walked in, behind what looked to be most of Holland ’s supply of tulips.

“What’re you doing, going into the florist business?”

“No.” He crossed to her, held out the rainbow of spring flowers. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

“Oh, well. Wow.” Even as her heart went soft as putty, her stomach jumped. “Um.”

“You say thanks, and kiss me now,” Mac told her helpfully.

“Thanks.”

There were so many of them, she had to hold them out to the side before she could manage the kiss. And when she would have kept that part of the ritual light, he simply slid his arms around her, drew her closer, sucked her down into that soft, slippery world.

“There are a lot of flowers.” He rubbed his lips over hers, stirring them both. “Say thanks again.”

“Th—” He took the kiss deeper until her skin was humming and she’d risen to her toes.

“That ought to cover it.” He ran his hands up and down her sides.

“I guess.” She had to clear her throat. “They’re really pretty.” She felt silly holding them, sillier still because she wanted to bury her face in them and sniff like a puppy. “But you didn’t have to bring me flowers. I don’t really go in for the whole Valentine’s gig.”

“Yeah, crass commercialism and blah, blah. So what?”

He made her laugh, and she stopped feeling silly. “There’s a hell of a lot of them—the florist must have fallen weeping to his knees when you walked out. Let me see if we’ve got something around here to hold them.”

She had to settle for a plastic scrub bucket—but did indulge herself with some sniffing and sighing as she filled it with water from the bathroom tap.

“I’ll do better by them when I take them home,” she promised as she carried them back out. “I didn’t know tulips came in so many colors. I guess I haven’t paid attention.”

“My mom goes for tulips. She—what do you call it—forces the bulbs in little glass jars every winter.”

Ripley set the makeshift vase on the desk. “I bet you sent your mother flowers today.”

“Sure did.”

She looked at him, shook her head. “You’re a hell of a sweetheart, Dr. Booke.”

“Think so?” He dug in his pocket, frowned, dug in the other. And came up with a little candy heart, then dropped it into Ripley’s palm.

Be Mine, she read, and felt that little jitter in the belly again.

“So, how about it?” He reached around to tug on her ponytail. “Are you going to be my valentine?”

“Boy, you’re really into this. Looks like you’ve got me. Now I’m going to have to go buy you a mushy card.”

“It’s the least you can do.” He continued to play with the sleek tail of hair. “Listen, about tonight. I didn’t realize it was Valentine’s Day when I made the arrangements with Mia. If you want, I can reschedule that and we can go out to dinner, take a drive, whatever you’d like.”

“Oh.” It was Friday, she remembered. She’d done her best to block that particular fact out of her head. Now he was giving her the perfect way to put it all off. To put off something that was important to his work.

Yep, she thought with an inward sigh, the man was a sweetheart.

“No, don’t worry about it. It’s already set up.”

“You could come with me.”

When she started to turn away, he kept her in place with his hand on her hair, turning a tender gesture into a no-nonsense one with a simple flexing of fingers.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do. Don’t count on me.”

“Whatever you say.” He hated to see her struggle, but knew of no way to smooth it all away. “There are some things I want to talk to you about. If you decide to give the session at Mia’s a pass, can you come by the cottage afterward?”

“What things?”

“We’ll talk about it.” He gave her hair a last tug before walking to the door. “Ripley.” He paused, his hand on the knob and looked at her. A gun at her hip, a pail of tulips at her side. “I know we’re standing on opposite sides of a line in one area. As long as we understand why, and accept that, accept each other, we’re okay.”

“You’re so damn stable.”

“Hey, my parents spent a lot of money to make sure of it.”

“Shrinks,” she said and worked up a sneer for him.

“Damn right. See you later.”

“Yeah,” she murmured when the door closed behind him.

Problem was, she wasn’t quite so stable. Not quite so okay. Because she was crazy about him. It was difficult for a woman to maintain her dignity and reputation as somewhat of a hard-ass when she was walking around with a bucket full of tulips. It was damn near impossible when that same woman got caught perusing a dwindling display of sentimental Valentine’s Day cards.

“I like this one.” Gladys Macey reached around her and tapped a huge card with an enormous pink heart. Ripley did her best not to squirm.

“Yeah?”

“I picked it out for Carl a week ago, and he liked it fine when I gave it to him this morning. Men like big cards. Must make them feel more manly.”

Having no doubt that Gladys knew more about such matters than she did, Ripley plucked the card out of the slot.

“Last one,” she commented. “Lucky me.”

“Lucky you, indeed.” Gladys bent down to admire the tulips. “Must be four dozen tulips in there.”

“Five,” Ripley corrected. Okay, she’d counted. She couldn’t help it.

“Five dozen. Mmm. And they cost the earth this time of year. Pretty as a picture, though. You get candy, too?”

Ripley thought of the little heart that she’d tucked in her pocket. “Sort of.”

“Candy, too.” Gladys nodded wisely. “The man’s smitten.”

Ripley nearly bobbled the bucket. “What did you say?”

“I said the man’s smitten.”

“Smitten.” Something tickled Ripley’s throat, but she wasn’t sure if it was panic or humor. “That word’s getting around these days. Why do you think that?”

“Well, for heaven’s sake, Ripley, a man doesn’t buy a woman flowers, give her candy and so forth on Valentine’s Day because he wants a canasta partner. What makes young people so thickheaded about these things?”

“I just figured he was one of those people who make Hallmark stand up and cheer.”

“Men don’t make grand gestures unless they’re reminded to, in trouble, guilty, or smitten.” Gladys ticked these possibilities off on her fingers, with nails newly polished in Valentine Red. “Not in my experience. Did you remind him what day it was?”

“No, I forgot about it myself.”

“You have a spat?”

“No,” Ripley conceded.

“Anything you can think of for him to be guilty about?”

“No, there’s nothing in particular for him to feel guilty about.”

“Well, then, where does that leave him?”

“According to your lineup, smitten.” She’d have to think about it. She studied the card in her hand. “So, they like the big ones?”

“Absolutely. You put those flowers in something pretty now. They’re too sweet to stay in that old bucket.” She gave Ripley a pat on the shoulder, then wandered off.

As soon as she could manage it, Gladys would be spreading the word that the village deputy was sweet on the mainlander. And vice versa.

The mainlander was back at work. He’d studied, organized, and logged the varied data that had come through on the night he and Ripley had been together. He was formulating theories, hypotheses, and working toward logical conclusions. He hadn’t noted the time when he and Ripley had made love. His mind had been on more important matters. Nor had he clocked the duration. But his printouts, assuming that his theories on energy dispersal were correct, pinned it down for him.

The machines had picked up burst after burst, spikes, long, steady rises, fluctuations. Wasn’t it interesting that he hadn’t heard the clatter of them as they recorded? He’d been so completely absorbed in her. Now he could look at the tangible record of what they’d brought to each other. It was oddly arousing. He measured distances between the spikes and rises, calculated the valleys between energy peaks and the output of each. Then he had to get up and walk around until he could stop imagining her naked and concentrate on science.

“Long steady holding pattern here. Low-grade energy levels.” He crunched on an apple, pushed up his glasses. “Afterglow period. We’re just lying there now. Languor, pillow talk. Makes sense. So why does it start building again here?”

It was almost like steps, he noted. A rise, a plateau, a rise, a plateau. He tried to think. She’d gotten up, gone for the pizza, into the kitchen for a couple of beers. Maybe she’d been thinking about making love again. He didn’t mind thinking she was. It was a nice boost to the ego.

But it didn’t explain the abrupt and violent energy flash. Nothing step like there. It had been like a rocket going off. Nothing he could find indicated that it came from an outside source or an underlying well of energy. To his best recollection, he’d been in a kind of twilight sleep, just sort of floating while he waited for her. He’d been thinking about the pizza, about eating it in bed with her. Naked. It had been a pleasant image, but he hadn’t been the cause of this. Therefore, Ripley had. But how and why were the puzzles.

An aftershock sort of thing? That was possible. But aftershocks were rarely as powerful as the initial quake, and this one punched right through the ceiling. If he could re-create the event. . . . That was a thought. Of course, he would need to find a delicate way to propose that to her. They had a lot to talk about.

He bit into the apple again, and felt happy just remembering the stunned look on her face when he’d walked in with all those flowers. He liked surprising her that way, then watching her deal with it. He just liked watching her. He wondered how much work it was going to be for him to talk her into taking a trip with him, maybe in the spring. Before he had to buckle down and turn his data and theories and conclusions into a book. They could make a quick stop in New York . He wanted her to meet his family. Then they could take a few days somewhere, anywhere she wanted. He wasn’t particular. Some time alone with her, away from work. It might help him evaluate another hypothesis he was working on. That he was falling in love with her.

Ripley decided to keep her distance from whatever was going to happen at Mia’s that evening. Since Zack had chosen to go along, she would have the house to herself for a change. She could take advantage of that by turning the TV up too loud, eating junk food, and watching a really bad action movie on cable. She’d been spending nearly all her free time with Mac, and maybe that was part of the problem. A little alone time in her own space was just what she needed. She would work off some energy lifting weights, take a long, hot shower, then settle in with popcorn, loaded with salt and butter, and watch TV with her pals Lucy and Diego. She turned the music up to earsplitting in the spare room she used for workouts, then with the dog and cat trailing her, walked into the bedroom to change into her gear. And there were the tulips, the charming explosion of them, taking over her dresser. The air was sweet with them.

“Valentine’s Day’s just a racket,” she said out loud, then gave up. “But it really works.”

She picked up the card she’d bought for Mac. It wouldn’t take her very long to run over to the cottage, slip it under his door. In fact, it would probably be better if she didn’t have to give him something so, well, mushy face-to-face. And she could add a little note saying that she would see him tomorrow. The more she’d thought about it, the less she wanted to talk about whatever it was he wanted to talk about when he was still pumped from his witch session. She didn’t care if it was unfair or unrealistic, or even stupid. For now, for a while longer, she wanted to keep whatever it was they felt for each other separate from his work and her . . . gift. She’d never been in love before. What was wrong with holding on to that for a while, and putting off the rest?

“Okay, back in ten,” she told Lucy and Diego. “No smoking, drinking, or making long distance calls while I’m gone.”

She grabbed the card and headed toward the door leading out to the deck. And stepped out onto the beach, into a rising storm. The wind slashed, the icy tip of a whip. The air was blue with lightning. She was spinning, spinning through it, flying on a current of power that pulsed in a thousand heartbeats over her skin. The circle was a white flame on the sand. She was in it, and above it, outside it. Three figures ringed inside it. She saw herself, who was not herself, link hands with her sisters. And the chants that rose up hummed inside her.

She saw herself, yet not herself, standing alone, beyond that bright circle. Arms lifted, hands empty. And the grief shot up out of that lonely heart into her own. She saw herself, as she was, as she could be, alive in that storm. Beyond the circle where her sisters waited. Rage and power twisted inside her.

One man cowered at her feet, and another ran toward her in the violent dark. But she could not be reached. Would not be reached. In her hand was the bright silver sword of justice. With a cry, she brought it down. And destroyed them all.

She awoke sprawled on the deck, shuddering helplessly in the balmy night. Her skin was damp and there was the electric smell of ozone stinging the air. Her stomach spasmed as she pushed herself to her hands and knees. Too weak to stand, she stayed there, rocking gently, taking gulping breaths to feed her starved lungs. The roaring in her head subsided and became the endless rolling of the sea. It had never come on her like that, never so abruptly, so physically. Not even when she was practicing, when she had willingly sought such things.

She wanted to crawl back into her room, to curl up on the rug in the dark and whimper like a baby. It was the small, pitiful sounds coming from her own throat that made her force herself up until she was kneeling, until she was breathing deep and steady again. With the vision still pounding at her, she scrambled to her feet and ran.

 

 

Chapter Thirteen

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Nell linked her hand with Zack’s, deliberately slowing the pace. Thin clouds sailed overhead, filtering the starlight. The fat curve of moon was a soft and waiting white. She knew her way in the dark, through Mia’s gardens, past her jutting cliffs and into the winter forest. With her hand warm in Zack’s, she let Mia and Mac pull ahead. She could hear Mia’s voice, like a light trail of music, slip back through the trees and shadows.

“Would you rather I stayed behind?”

“No. It’s just that you’ve never come with me before.”

“You never asked me before.”

Her fingers curled in his, she stopped. She could see him clearly enough. She could always see him clearly. “It wasn’t that you weren’t welcome.” In the starlight, she saw his brows arch, and she smiled.

“Exactly.”

In a slow, easy movement, he lifted their joined hands to his lips. “Does my being here make you uncomfortable?”

“Not uncomfortable. A little nervous, maybe.” Because she was, she touched him, just a skim of her fingers over his arm. “I’m not sure how you might react, how you’ll feel about this part of me.”

“Nell.” He put his hands on her shoulders, gave them a little rub. “I’m not Darren.”

“Who?”

“You know—Darren. Bewitched. You twitch your nose and I get all grumpy about it.”

It took her a minute, then she wrapped her arms around his waist. Nerves, doubts, worries, were completely swamped by joy. “I really love you.”

“I know. There is one thing. I was going to be open-minded and not bring it up, but . . .” He glanced over to where Mac had disappeared into the dark with Mia. “I’ve read up on rituals and magic and that sort of thing, and I know that sometimes they involve getting naked. I don’t care how stupid it sounds, but I want you to keep your clothes on when Mac’s around.”

She tried to hide her amusement. “He’s a scientist. Like a doctor.”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass. In this particular area, I’m Darren.”

“Well, Darren, it’s not warm enough to go skyclad. And to be perfectly frank, I keep my clothes on even when it’s just me and Mia. Apparently I’m a very prudish witch.”

“Suits me.”

They began to walk again, with him letting her lead the way. “So . . . does Mia get naked?”

“Skyclad,” Nell corrected. “And I don’t see why you’d be interested.”

“Purely from an academic standpoint.”

“Yeah, right.”

They were still teasing each other as they stepped into the clearing. Shadows, gray as smoke, ringed the edges. Hanks of dried herbs and chains of crystals hung from the bare branches of the trees. A trio of stones rose up in a kind of altar. Mac crouched in front of it, busily taking readings. Mia had denied him his video camera and tape recorder. No amount of persuasion had moved her on that point. But she had permitted his sensors and his notebook. And his mind.

Mia had already set down the bag she carried, and now walked over to Zack to take the one he’d brought for Nell. “Let’s give our scientist a moment to play, shall we?” She gestured toward Mac. “He’s so happy.”

Then she slipped an arm around Nell’s shoulders. “There’s no need to be nervous, little sister.”

“It just feels a little odd. And I’m still new to all this.”

“Your man stands with you. You come here already more powerful than you were the first time, and more aware of self.” She shifted her gaze to Zack, studied his face. “Can’t you feel his pride in you? In all that you are? There are some who never have that vital magic. Without it, the light’s never quite bright enough.”

As much to bolster herself as Nell, she gave Nell’s shoulders a little squeeze before going to join Mac.

“She’s so lonely,” Nell confided to Zack. “She doesn’t think it, and she’s so confident, so complete, no one sees it. But there are times she’s so lonely it makes me ache.”

“You’re a good friend, Nell.”

Mia laughed at something Mac said, then spun away from him. It wasn’t quite a dance, Mac would think later. But still somehow balletic. Her long gray dress billowed, then settled as she lifted her arms. And her voice, rich and full, was the music.

“This is our place, the place of the Three. It was conjured from need and knowledge, from hope and despair. From power turned away from death and fear and ignorance. This is our place,” she repeated, “passed down to us, the Three to the Three. For tonight, we are two.”

Mac got slowly to his feet. She was changing in front of him. Her hair was more vivid, her skin sheening like marble. Her already staggering beauty increased, as if some thin veil had been lifted. He wondered if she used her magic to enhance what she had now, or if she used her gift to dim it at other times. And he cursed the lack of recording equipment.

“We come here to give thanks, to honor those who came before, to offer, and remember. This ground is sacred. You are welcome here, MacAllister Booke, when you’re invited. I won’t insult you by asking for your promise not to come here otherwise.”

“You have it anyway.”

She inclined her head, a regal acknowledgment.

“Zack, you are Nell’s, and this place is hers as much as mine. So it’s yours. You can ask questions if you like,” she added as she bent to open her bag. “I imagine Dr. Booke has most of the answers.”

Because the request was implied, Mac crossed over and stood with the other man. “The candles they’re getting out are ritual candles. I imagine they’ve already been consecrated and inscribed. They’re using silver, representing the goddess. Female power. The symbols on them . . .”

He edged a little closer, squinted. “Ah, yeah. The four elements. Earth, Air, Fire, Water. Mia wouldn’t tell me what ritual they’d do tonight, but from the setup, it’s probably a call to the four elements. An offering of respect,” he continued. “Maybe a request for dream interpretation or clairvoyance. Those are represented by the silver candles, too. It’s an attractive ritual.”

“You’ve seen it before.” Zack watched his wife remove a knife with a curved handle, a goblet, a wooden wand with a crystal tip from her bag.

“Yeah. If the ritual generates enough power, you may feel a little tingle in the air. Even without that, my sensors will pick up the energy increase. They’ll cast a circle and light the candles with wooden matches.”

“Matches?” Zack felt his face split into a grin. “Brother, keep watching.” Amused now, and fascinated by his wife, Zack slipped his hands into his pockets, rocked back on his heels. Mac scribbled in his notebook as they cast the circle. It was a fairly standard casting, little variation on the other chants and movements he’d observed.

“Too bad it’s cloudy,” he commented as he checked the new reading on his sensor. “We could use more light.”

Even as he spoke, a thin line of silver shimmered over the ground, a perfect circle of light.

“Jeez.” With equal parts shock and fascination, he took a step forward, notebook forgotten. From the center of the circle, Mia and Nell set the candles alight, with no more than a sweep of arm.

“I thought you’d seen this deal before,” Zack said.

“Not like this. Never like this.” Catching himself ogling, he pulled himself back. And got to work.

“We are two,” Mia said. “And we bring two more. One for love, and one for knowledge. One to be cherished, the other to be sought.” She picked up her wand. “Such things are tools,” she said, conversationally now. “Tools are to be respected.” She opened a small jar and took out a handful of petals. “Iris, for wisdom.”

From another, Nell took a sprig of rosemary. “And this for love.” She took up her ritual knife and used the tip to draw symbols on the earth. “And here we twine them, here we bind them, love and knowledge blessed with hope, within the circle and without, sought and cherished they conquer fear and vanquish doubt.”

“Hearts and minds, open and free,” Mia continued, sprinkling herbs and flowers into a wide bowl. “Only then can we meet our destinies. Because these things we both hold dear, we allow two to witness what we do here. In this place and on this night, we open our ritual to their sight. This I do willingly.”

“As do I,” Nell responded.

“All right, then. Any questions, Professor?”

“I’ve never seen that particular ritual.”

“Just a little precaution. We wouldn’t want you to be taken as Peeping Toms. Consider it a kind of warm-up act for the main performance. Still, you’re not to attempt to enter the circle, or even approach it, once we begin. Understood?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Then . . .”

“One more?” Mac lifted a finger.

“Ask,” Mia said with a nod.

“What is this place?”

Mia held out a hand, palm up, fingers gently cupped, as if she held something precious. The air—Mac would have sworn it—pulsed.

“It is,” she said quietly, “the heart.”

Then she lowered her hand. Mia nodded at Nell. “Blessed be, little sister.”

Nell drew in breath, held it as she lifted her arms. “I call to Air, both restless and sweet. On her breast my wings will beat. Rise and turn and blow your breath warm, come stir the wind, but do no harm. I am Air,” she called out as the hanging crystals began to sing, “and she is me. As I will, so mote it be.”

The wind swirled, dancing in the once still night. Mac could smell the sea in it, feel it whisper, then rush over his face and hair.

“Amazing,” was the best he could do, and watched Mia mirror Nell’s gesture before she picked up the chant.

“I call to Fire, her heat and light. In her heart life burns strong and bright. Flame like the sun, bring harm to none. I am Fire, and she is me. As I will, so mote it be.”

The silver candles sprang like torches, and the shimmering circle rose like a flaming wall. Mac’s sensors rang like alarms. For the first time in his long career, he gave them not a thought. The pencil he held slipped unnoticed out of his fingers. He could feel the heat, see through it. The women behind that sheer, fiery curtain glowed just as brightly. And the wind sang like a woman in love. Within the circle, Nell and Mia turned to each other, clasped hands. Ripley rocketed out of the woods. Mac caught only a glimpse—her pale, pale face, dark eyes, then she was diving into the fire.

“No!”

With images of her burning, he leaped forward.

“Stay back!” Mia snapped out the order even as she knelt beside Ripley.

“Damn it, she’s hurt.” Mac lifted one unsteady hand, pressed against an invisible barrier. It sparked, hissed, but wouldn’t give way. Nothing he’d seen or done had prepared him to stand helpless behind magic, unable to reach the woman he loved.

“Break the circle,” he demanded. “Let me through.”

“This isn’t for you.”

“She is.” He curled his fists against the shield, ignoring the heat that radiated from it.

“Nell.” Zack strained at the edge of the fire. He felt the scorch of its power, and for the first time a ripple of fear.

“It’s all right. She’s safe here. I promise.” Watching her husband, she cradled his sister’s head. “Please.”

“You know better.” Mia’s voice was steady even as she brushed back Ripley’s hair. Even as she watched Ripley’s eyes clear, her heart thudded. “I wasn’t prepared for you, nor you for this.”

“Don’t scold her. She’s shaking. What is it, Ripley?” Nell asked. “What happened?”

Shaking her head, Ripley struggled to her knees. “I can’t control it. I couldn’t stop it. I don’t know what to do.”

“Tell me,” Mia insisted as she gave a worried glance toward the men. Her will and her wall wouldn’t hold them out much longer. No defense lasted against love. “And be quick.”

“A vision. Hit me like a fist. What was, what might be. It’s bad. It’s me.” She moaned and sank into a ball. “It hurts.”

“You know what needs to be done.”

“No.”

“You know,” Mia repeated and ruthlessly dragged her up again. “You came, you’re here, and you know what you have to do for this, for now. The rest comes when it comes.”

Her stomach pitched, cramped. “I don’t want this.”

“And still you came. To save us? Well, save yourself first. Do it. Now.”

Her breath was coming in ragged gasps, and the look she shot Mia was anything but friendly. But she held out a hand. “Well, damn it, help me up. I won’t do it on my knees.”

Nell took one hand, Mia the other. And when Ripley stood on her feet, they let her go.

“I don’t remember the words.”

“Yes, you do. Stop stalling.”

Ripley hissed out a breath. Her throat was so tight it stung, and her stomach was alive with cramps. “I call to Earth, generous and deep, in her we sow that we may reap . . .”

She felt the power rising, swayed with it. “Mia—”

“Finish.”

“Give us your charm and bring no harm. I am Earth and she is me. As I will, so mote it be.”

Power gushed into her, flooded out the pain. The ground at her feet sprang with flowers.

“And the last.” Mia gripped her hand firmly, took Nell’s. They were linked, a circle within a circle. “We are the Three. We call to Water, stream, and sea.”

“Within her great heart,” Nell continued, “life came to be.”

“With your soft rain, bring no harm, no pain.” Ripley lifted her face and joined her sisters in the last of the chant.

“We are Water, and she is we. As we will, so mote it be.”

Rain fell soft as silk and bright as silver.

“We are the Three,” Mia said again, quietly so that only Nell and Ripley could hear. Because he had no choice, Mac waited until the ritual was complete and the circle closed. The minute he could reach her he grabbed Ripley’s arms. A shock of electricity jolted through his hands, but he held on.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes. I need to—”

“Don’t pull away from me.” His voice carried an undertone of steel.

“I wouldn’t pull if you didn’t grab.”

“I beg your pardon,” he said and released her.

“Look, damn it.” She poked at his arm as he turned away. “I’m a little churned up right now. I could use a few minutes to settle down.”

“Take all the time you need. I’ve got plenty to do.”

He walked back to pick up his notebook, check his equipment.

“That was unkind of you,” Mia scolded.

“Don’t hassle me now.”

“Suit yourself. We’re going back to the house. You’re welcome, of course. Or you can go to the devil, which often suits you as well.”

She shot her nose in the air and walked off to join Mac.

“Hey.” Zack stepped to her, ran a hand through her hair, then framed her face. “Scared me.”

“Scared me, too.”

“Keeping that in mind, you might want to cut the guy some slack. I’ve seen a little of what the three of you can pull off together before. He hasn’t. Rip.” He pulled her close a moment. “You go running through fire, it shakes a man up some.”

“Yeah, okay.” Nothing, she thought, ever felt quite as solid and steady as her brother. “I’ll talk to him. Why don’t you take Nell and Mia back to the house? We’ll be along in a minute.”

“You got it.”

She gathered herself, picked up one of Mac’s scattered pencils and took it to him. “I’m sorry I snapped at you.”

“No problem.”

“Look, don’t go sulky on me. You don’t know what it’s like to . . .”

“No, I don’t,” he shot back. “And you don’t know what it’s like to just stand there, fucking stand there, when I don’t know if you’re hurt.”

“Okay, I’m sorry. I couldn’t. . .” To her horror, her voice broke, and her vision wavered with tears.

“Damn it, I told you I was churned up.”

“Okay. Whoa.” He drew her into his arms, stroked her hair. “Why don’t you just hold on here a minute?”

“Crying pisses me off.”

“I bet. Just hold on.”

She gave in, gave up and wrapped her arms around him. “I’ll get it together in a minute.”

“That’s okay, because I want to hold on, too. I thought you were . . .” He saw it again, that flash of her face that was white as bone as she leaped into a wall of golden flame. “I don’t know what I thought. I’m prepared for a lot of this kind of thing. I’ve seen magic. I believe in it. But nothing I’ve seen or imagined comes close to what the three of you did tonight.”

“I didn’t want to be here.”

“Then why were you? What scared you enough to bring you here?”

She shook her head. “I only want to tell it once. Let’s go back to Mia’s.”

He hitched his equipment bag onto his shoulder. “You were in pain. I saw that.”

“The circle wasn’t prepared for me, and I wasn’t prepared for it.”

“No, before that. Before you did your death-defying leap.”

“You see a hell of a lot, don’t you, for a guy who’s always losing his glasses.”

“They’re just for reading and close work.” He wanted to stroke, to tend, to cuddle. And was afraid if he did, they’d both fall apart. “Is there any pain now?”

“No.” She sighed. “No. I took the power, called my element, made the circle of Three. There’s no pain now.”

“But you’re not happy about it.”

Like Nell, she knew her way through the forest, through the dark. Already she could see the glimmer of light from Mia’s windows. “It brings Nell joy, and gives Mia a kind of, I don’t know, foundation. For Nell it’s an exploration, for Mia it’s like breathing.”

“And for you?”

“For me it’s a goddamn stampede.”

“So you chose to fence it in.”

“And I didn’t use strong enough nails,” she finished, with just a hint of bitterness, and shook her head to ward off any more questions.

Mac supposed the food and wine were another kind of ritual, one used as a bridge between the fantastic and the ordinary. Though he doubted he would forget even the smallest detail about the night, he scribbled in his notebook as Mia played hostess.

“Is it all right to ask questions?”

She smiled at him.

“Of course,” she replied, as she curled cozily in a chair. “But they may or may not be answered.”

“What you did tonight . . . your preparations, your ceremonial tools and ritualistic, well, trappings, were very simple, very basic for such extraordinary results.”

“Too many trappings and too much ceremony is usually a cloak to disguise a lack of power, or used to feed the ego, perhaps to impress an audience.”

“Do you need them at all?”

“What an interesting question, Mac. What do you think?”

“I think not.” And even he, before tonight, wouldn’t have believed it. “I think the gift in each one of you is beyond them. I think you could light the fire in your hearth without moving from that chair, without casting a circle, without ritual.”

She sat back, regarding him. What was it about him, she wondered, that tugged at her? That made her want to share with him what she’d shared with no outsider? “There’s a reason for traditions, even for superstition. For ceremony. It helps focus power, and pays respect to the source. But, of course . . .”

Behind her, the fire leaped to life in the hearth. “You’re quite right.”

“Show-off,” Ripley muttered.

She laughed, and the fire damped down to a soft and pleasant glow. “You’re right, too.” She sipped her wine, and her eyes met Ripley’s over the rim of her glass. “You used to have more of a sense of humor about it.”

“And you used to lecture that I should take more responsibility.”

“I suppose I did. How tedious of me.”

“Oh, don’t start pinching at each other,” Nell ordered. “You wear me out.”

“We could have used her as a mediator years ago.” Mia sipped her wine again. “We are the Three. It can’t be changed, avoided, or ignored. You know the legend,” she said to Mac.

“Very well. The one called Air left the sanctuary of the island. She married a man who couldn’t accept her, wouldn’t cherish her, and in the end destroyed her.”

“She destroyed herself,” Nell said, disagreeing. “By not believing in who she was, by lacking the courage to.”

“Maybe.” Mac nodded. “The one called Earth refused to accept what had happened. It ate through her until she used her power to avenge her sister.”

“She wanted justice.” Ripley rose to prowl. “She needed it.”

“Her need caused her to break trust.” Mia’s hand lifted an inch off the chair, then lowered again. It wasn’t time to reach out. “To turn from everything she was and had been given and use power to harm.”

“She couldn’t control it,” Ripley said in a shaky voice. “She couldn’t stop it.”

“She didn’t control or stop it, and doomed herself and what she loved.”

“And the third,” Ripley spun back. “She who was Fire found a silkie in human form sleeping in a cave near a cove. And taking his pelt, she hid it and bound him to her.”

“It’s not against the laws of magic to do so.” In a casual move that cost her a great deal, Mia leaned over and selected a cube of cheese from a tray. “She took him as lover, as husband, raised her children with him, then the children of her lost sisters.”

The food tasted like chalk in her throat, but she nibbled casually. “She gave him her heart. But the day came when she was less than vigilant, and he found his pelt. And though he had loved her, when a silkie has his pelt, the sea beckons. He forgot her, their life, their love, their children—as though they had never existed—and left her for the sea.”

Mia lifted a shoulder. “Without sister, without lover, without husband she pined, and pining, despaired. She cursed her magic for bringing her love, then stealing it away. And abjuring it, leaped from the cliffs to the sea where her lover had gone.”

“Death isn’t the answer,” Nell added. “I know.”

“It was, at that moment, hers,” Mia stated. “So three hundred years later, the descendants of the sisters, of the Three, must make restitution, must turn back each key. One by three. Or the island they made will tumble forever into the sea.”

“If you believe that, why do you live here?” Ripley demanded. “Why are you in this house, why the bookstore, why anything?”

“This is my place, and my time. The same as it’s yours, and Nell’s. If you don’t believe it, why are you here tonight?”

Mia could feel her temper begin to snap, and yanked it back. She also saw the misery on Ripley’s face. It was hard, after so many years, to reach out. But she got to her feet, held out a hand.

“Tell me. Let me help.”

“I saw—it was painful, like being ripped open, head to gut. And so fast there was no time to react.”

“You know it doesn’t have to be that way. You know it doesn’t ask for pain, nor want harm.”

“Threefold.” A single tear spilled over before she could stop it. “What you send comes back, times three. She destroyed them.”

“Not alone. Each of them had responsibility. Tell me.” She wiped the tear from Ripley’s cheek herself.

“What did you see?”

“I saw . . .” She replayed the vision, her voice calming as she spoke. “I don’t know who he was, or what he represented, but he’ll come. None of you could stop me, no more than I could stop myself. It was my sword, Mia. My ritual sword. I killed him with it—and killed us all.”

“You won’t. You won’t,” she repeated before Ripley could protest. “You’re stronger than that.”

“I wanted to hurt him. I could feel the rage. I’ve never had control over power when my emotions take over. Why the hell do you think I stopped?”

“Because you were afraid?” The temper came bubbling back, a decade of fury. “You turned away from me, from what you are, because you were afraid of what you might do? You’re just stupid !”

She whirled away, then yelped when Ripley grabbed her by the hair and yanked. “Who the hell are you calling stupid, you skinny, snotty, self-serving bitch?” Her eyes narrowed when Mia lifted a bunched fist, then she let out a laugh. “Yeah, like that scares me. Hit me with your thumb tucked in that way, you’re going to hurt yourself more than me. You’re such a damn girl, Mia.”

“That’s an interesting observation, since you’re the one doing the hair pulling.”

With a shrug, Ripley let go. “Okay, we’re even.” She blew out a breath, blinking when she realized that all the other people in the room had gotten to their feet. She’d forgotten they were there. “Sorry.”

After smoothing her hair, Mia slid into her chair again. “Pissed you off when I called you stupid, didn’t I?”

“Damn right. So watch it.”

“But you didn’t use power to strike at me when my back was turned.” Mia lifted her glass again. “You didn’t even consider it.”

Tricky witch, Ripley thought with reluctant admiration. She’d always been tricky. “I wasn’t that mad.”

“Yes, you were,” Zack commented, and settled down again. “You really hate being called a coward or stupid. She did both. And all you did was pull her hair.”

“It’s not the same thing.”

“Close enough.” Zack took his wife’s hand, studied his sister. “There are two things you’re not, Rip. You’re not a coward and you’re not stupid. Everyone in this room can handle themselves. I don’t know as much about all this as the rest of you, but I know you. And it’s time you stopped thinking everything hinges on you. Nobody’s alone here.”

“I couldn’t stand to hurt you, to be responsible for it. I couldn’t live with it. Mom and Dad, Nell. Answer me this,” she demanded, turning back to Mia. “And no bullshit. What if I leave the island, if I pack up, get on the ferry, and just don’t come back? Could it break the chain?”

“You already know the answer. But why don’t we ask Mac to give it? This is his field, as an academic, an observer, and someone who has done considerable research into such matters. Your objective opinion, Dr. Booke?”

“The island itself has power. In sort of a holding pattern until it’s stirred up or applied.”

“Then if I leave it, I take away my, what, conduit to it? Can I do that?”

“On some level, yes, but that would only decrease, potentially decrease, your personal focus of energy. It wouldn’t change a thing. I’m sorry. Where you go isn’t the point. What you do is.”

He could see she wasn’t satisfied, so he spread his hands and tried to explain his theory. “Okay. If, for the purposes of this discussion, we take legend as fact, you’ll have a choice to make. Something to do or not to do. You’re here.”

He used a napkin as the island, placed three olives on it. Then he plucked one olive up and set it on a tray. “You leave. All you do is change the location of the choice, the act, the restraint. Wherever you go, the four elements exist. You can’t defy basic natural law. What you are doesn’t change, and what you do carries back—by earth, air, fire, water.”

He jabbed a fingertip onto the napkin. “Right back to the source. Inevitably. Staying is your only logical choice. You’re stronger here, and the three of you together make the difference.”

“He’s right.” Nell spoke and brought Ripley’s attention around. “We’ve already changed the pattern once. We’re three, when before there were only two left. Without you and Mia, without you,” she said to Zack, “there would only be two now. Their circle was broken by this point. Ours isn’t.”

“But it is rusty,” Mia said and chose another cube of cheese. “You’ll need to get back in shape, Deputy.”

Ripley snagged an olive, popped it into her mouth. “The hell I will.”

 

 

Chapter Fourteen

“How about, for tonight, you turn those things off?”

Ripley stood on the threshold of the yellow cottage. She wasn’t willing to go in and have a bunch of damn machines start scanning her, not after the evening she’d had.

“Sure.” Mac slipped by her, set down his equipment bag, then began shutting down. He hadn’t expected her to come back with him. Though she didn’t look it, he imagined she was tired. Or at the least had had enough of people in general. Perhaps him in particular. She’d bounced back, that was certain. Back to trading sharp little barbs with Mia, to behaving as if what had happened in the clearing had been nothing major.

It was an unbelievable shield that she hefted, he thought. Nearly as impressive as the one that had kept him out of the circle in the clearing. He wondered just how vulnerable she felt when her grip on that shield slipped.

“You want to sit?” he asked when she stepped inside and shut the door. “Or just go to bed?”

“Well, that’s cutting to the chase.”

His color rose. “I didn’t mean sex. I thought you might want some sleep.”

She saw now that was exactly what he’d meant. Yeah, he was a damn sweetie all right, she decided, and prowled what she could of the room. “It’s a little early to bunk down. I thought you had stuff you wanted to talk to me about.”

“I do. I didn’t figure you’d be up for it tonight.”

“I’m not tired. It doesn’t work that way.”

“How . . . Here, let me take your jacket.”

She stepped back before he could, and shrugged out of it herself. “If I know you’re thinking the question, you might as well ask it. How does it work? I feel like I’ve got a tanker load of caffeine in my system. Energized,” she continued, crossing to him to give him a quick, firm shove. “Edgy.” And another.

“So yeah, I want to go to bed.” The last shove pushed him through the bedroom doorway. “And nobody’s going to sleep.”

“Okay, then. Why don’t we just—”

She shoved him again, then slapped on the lights. “I don’t want conversation, and I don’t want the dark.”

“Right.” For some reason he felt as if he’d just opened the door to a very hungry she-wolf. Her eyes were different. Greener, sharper. Predatory. His blood began to pump, quickly, helplessly. “I’ll just . . . close these curtains.”

“Leave them.”

“Ripley.” His laugh was a little strangled. “We’re pretty isolated, but nonetheless, with the lights on—”

“Leave them.” She yanked her sweater off in one quick move. “If you like that shirt, you’d better strip it off, and now. Otherwise, it’s toast.”

“You know”—he let out a breath, tried to work up an easy smile—“you’re scaring me.”

“Good. Be afraid.” She leaped at him, knocking him back on the bed. Hunching over him like a sleek cat. She made some primitive sound in her throat as she bared her teeth. Then set them on his neck.

“Christ!” He went hard as rock.

“I want it fast,” she panted, tearing open his shirt. “And rough. And now.”

He reached for her, but she fisted her hands in his hair, yanked, then ravished his mouth. The sheer heat of her seared through him, scorching the nerves, stealing the breath, boiling the blood. He spiraled down into the dark where pain and pleasure were twins, equally vital, equally irresistible. In response, the animal inside him lunged, straining at the end of its tether. Snapping it. His body reared up beneath hers, and his hands were hard and bruising as they tore, and took. He yanked her hair, dragging her head back to expose her throat for his teeth. It wasn’t desperation that filled him. But appetite.

They rolled over the bed, fighting for more flesh, more heat. She was alive with need, and all of it feral. Energy pumped through her, and all of it savage. Her nails raked at him, her teeth nipped. And when his fingers drove into her, her cry was one of fierce and greedy triumph. Higher, was all she could think. Faster. She wanted peak after violent peak. Lights danced in her mind, a blinding silver shower. And the storm that fueled them, fueled her.

She slithered over him like a snake, straddled him. And filled herself. It was like being consumed. Devoured whole. She closed over him like a fist, trapping him in hot, wet heat, holding him there by the power of her own climax. Staggered, he watched it rip through her, watched her body, pearled with sweat, bow back. And shudder, shudder. And she began to move. Lightning fast. Her hair fell forward, a tangle of dense brown, as she leaned down, chewed restlessly on his bottom lip.

He pistoned himself into her, hard, fast strokes while his hands gripped her hips like a vise. Then she leaned back, rode him ruthlessly to the barbed edge of peak.

“Not yet. Not yet,” she panted.

Even as his vision blurred, as his system strained toward that blessed release, she lifted her arms above her head, as she had done when she’d called her power. He felt the shock of it, like a red-tipped arrow through the haze of mad pleasure. Clean, sharp, and stunning as it pierced through her, and into him. He lay like a dead man, but it didn’t seem to matter. Dying for such an experience didn’t seem too high a price to pay right at the moment.

He felt as though he’d been hulled out. Every care, every worry, every spare thought carved away to be replaced by pure sensation. He might not be able to walk or speak or think again, but those were minor inconveniences. He was going to pass out of this world a very happy man.

Ripley made a little purring sound. Aha, he thought vaguely. He could still hear. That was a nice bonus. Then her mouth closed over his. His body could still register sensation. Better and better.

“Mac?”

He opened his mouth. Some sound came out. It wasn’t words, but there were a great many forms of verbal communication. He’d make do.

“Mac?” she said again, and slid her hand down his body, closed her fingers over him. Oh, yeah, he was definitely able to feel sensation.

“Uh-huh.” He cleared his throat, managed to open one eye. He wasn’t blind, after all. Another plus.

“Yeah. I wasn’t asleep.” His voice was rusty, but there. And he realized his throat was desperate with thirst. “I was having a near-death experience. It wasn’t bad.”

“Now that you’re back from beyond . . .” She slithered up his body again, and rendered him speechless when he saw she still had that gleam in her eye. “Again.”

“Hey, well.” He had some trouble breathing when her lips trailed down his chest. “You’re going to have to give me a little time to recover, you know. Maybe a month.”

She laughed, and the wicked sound of it rippled over his skin. “In that case, you’re just going to have to lie there and take it.”

Her mouth kept going. He melted into the bed. “Well, if I have to, I have to.”

Ripley knew she was in trouble. She’d never shared power with a man before. Never felt the need or desire to do so. With Mac, it had been a kind of compulsion, a deep, drowning need to extend that intimacy, link that part of her with him.

There was no longer any doubt that she was in love with him, or any hope that she could rationalize it away. Traditionally, Todds waited a long time to fall in love, and when they did it came hard and fast, and it was forever. It looked as if she was upholding the family name. But she didn’t have a clue what to do about it. Right at the moment, she couldn’t seem to care.

As for Mac, he felt slightly drunk and saw no reason to fight the sensation. The wind had started to rise. The sound of it shivering against the windows only made the cottage cozier. It was as if they were the only two people on the island. As far as he was concerned, it could stay that way.

“What was that stuff you wanted to tell me?”

“Hmm.” He continued to play with her hair and thought he could happily stay under those tangled sheets with her for the rest of his life. “It can wait.”

“Why? I’m here, you’re here. I’m thirsty.” She sat up, scooped her hair back. “Didn’t you say something about wine?”

“Probably. You sure you’re up for wine and conversation?”

She angled her head. “It’s that, or you’ll have to get up for something else.”

As lowering as it was to admit it, he was certain if she jumped him again, he would never live through it.

“I’ll get the wine.”

She laughed as he rolled out of bed. “Here.” He pulled open a drawer, tossed her some sweats. “Might as well be comfortable.”

“Thanks. Got any food?”

“Depends on your definition.”

“Just some munchies. I’ve got a craving.”

“Tell me about it. I’ve got potato chips.”

“That’ll do.” She tugged on the sweatpants, adjusting the drawstring until she was reasonably sure they’d stay up.

“I’ll dig them out.”

When he was gone, she pulled on the sweatshirt and indulged herself by sniffing at the sleeves, exploring the sensation of wearing something that was his. It was foolish and female, she admitted, but nobody had to know about it but her. When she walked into the kitchen, he already had the wine open, two glasses out, and a bag of chips on the counter. She snagged the chips, plopped down in a chair, and prepared to gorge.

“Let’s not, ah . . . do this in here,” Mac began. Nerves pricked at his bubble of contentment. He had no idea how she would react to what he had to tell her. That was just one of her fascinations for him—her unpredictability.

“Why?”

And there was another, he thought. She asked why nearly as often as he did himself. “Because we’ll be more comfortable in the other room.”

“The living room? We’ll sit on your equipment?”

“Ha-ha. No, there’s the couch, it’s still in there. And we can get a fire going. Are your feet cold? Want some socks?”

“No, I’m fine.” But he wasn’t, she noted. Something was making him jumpy. She pondered it as she followed him back into the living room. Since they had to squeeze their way through to get to the sofa, she doubted he’d used it for its intended purpose since he’d taken over the cottage. He put the wine on the floor, then began to move stacks of books off the cushions and set them aside. She opened her mouth to protest the trouble, then shut it again with an almost audible snap. Wine, conversation, a cozy fire. Romantic. Just the sort of romantic setup, she imagined, a man might want when he told a woman he loved her.

Her heart began to beat thickly.

“Is this an important conversation?” she asked him through lips that felt trembly and soft.

“I think so.” He hunkered down in front of the hearth. “I’m a little nervous about it. I didn’t expect to be. I’m not sure how to start.”

“You’ll figure it out.” Her legs wobbled a little, so she sat down. He set logs, kindling, then glanced back at her. It took her a minute to clue in to his speculative look. What she thought of as his scientist look. “Yes, I could start it from here,” she told him. “But I won’t.”

“Just wondering. Ah, lore holds that making fire is the basic form of magic, usually the first learned and the last lost. Would that be accurate?”

“I guess if you’re talking about a tangible form, one that requires direction, focus, control.” Because she felt hot and itchy, she shifted. “Mia’s better than I am at explaining that sort of thing. I don’t—haven’t been—thinking about it for a long time. She never stops.”

“That’s probably why the control and philosophy come more naturally to her.” He struck a long wooden match, set it against the starter. “Your power’s more—I don’t know—explosive, while hers is more centered.”

He got to his feet as the flames began to lick, rubbed his hands on the hips of his jeans. “I’m trying to think how to approach what I want to tell you.”

A flock of sparrows dive-bombed in her stomach. “You could just say it.”

“I work better with a buildup.” He bent down to pour the wine. “I had it pretty well set in my head before tonight. But, first seeing you, understanding to some extent what you went through, what you feel, then being with you. Ripley.”

He sat beside her, handed her the wine, then touched the back of her hand. “I want you to know that it’s never been like it is with you. Not with anyone else.”

There were tears in her throat, and for the first time in her life she found the taste of them lovely. “It’s different for me.”

He nodded, felt a little hitch in his heart as he took that to mean she experienced intimacy differently because of what she was. “All right. Well, what I’m trying to say here is that because of what’s—” He dragged a hand through his hair. “Because you matter, because what’s between us matters to me, the rest of it is a little more complicated. I guess I’m concerned that, especially after I get into the rest, you might think you matter to me only because of my work. That’s not true, Ripley. You just matter.”

Everything smoothed out inside her, like silk brushed with a loving hand. “I don’t think that. I wouldn’t still be here if I did. I wouldn’t want to be here, and I do.”

He took her hand and, kissing her palm, sent a long, slow ripple sliding from her toes to her throat.

“Mac . . .” she whispered.

“Originally I was going to tell Mia first, but I want to tell you.”

“I—you—Mia?”

“Theoretically, she’s the main connection. But it’s all linked, anyway. Plus I realized I needed to tell you first.” He kissed her hand again, somewhat absently this time, then sipped his wine like a man wetting his throat before preparing to lecture.

Her lovely mood went ragged at the edges. “I really think you’d better spit it out, Mac.”

“Okay. Each one of the sisters had children. Some stayed on the island, others left, never to return. And others traveled, married, then came back to the island to raise their families. I imagine you know all that, and that their children did the same, and so on down the generations. As a result, some of their descendants have always remained on Three Sisters. But others scattered over the world.”

“I don’t know what you’re getting at.”

“I’d probably be better off showing you. Hold on a minute.”

She watched him get up, then wind his way through the equipment. Hearing him curse lightly when he stubbed his toe gave her small, but vicious, satisfaction. The son of a bitch, she thought, rapping her fisted hand on the cushion. He wasn’t about to pledge his undying love, to pour out his heart, to beg her to marry him. He’d circled right back around to his stupid research while she’d been sitting there starry-eyed.

And whose fault is that? she reminded herself. She was the one who’d gotten it all twisted up. She was the one who’d left herself open for the clip on the jaw. She was the stupid one, the one who’d gone all mushy with love and stopped thinking clearly. She would just have to fix that. Not the love. She was a Todd and accepted that she loved him and always would. But she certainly could get her head on straight again and start thinking.

He was the one meant for her, so he was going to have to deal with it. Dr. MacAllister Booke wasn’t just going to study witches. He was damn well going to marry one. As soon as she figured out how to make him.

“Sorry.” He skirted the equipment more carefully this time. “It wasn’t where I thought I put it. Nothing ever is.” His expression changed with the glittering look she sent him. “Ah . . . Something wrong?”

“No, not a thing.” Playfully, she patted the cushion beside her. “I was just thinking it’s a waste to sit alone in front of the fire.” When he sat, she slid her leg intimately over his. “Much better.”

“Well.” His blood pressure began a steady rise as she leaned in and rubbed her lips over his jaw. “I thought you’d want to read this.”

“Mmm. Why don’t you read it to me?” She nibbled lightly on his earlobe. “You have such a sexy voice.”

She took the glasses out of his pocket. “And you know how turned on I get when you wear these.”

He made some sound, then fumbled the glasses on. “These are, ah, photocopied pages. I have the original journal in a vault, because it’s old and fragile. It was written by my great . . . well a number of greats, grandmother. On my mother’s side. The first entry was made September12 ,1758, and written on Three Sisters Island.”

Ripley jerked back. “What did you say?”

“I think you should just listen. ‘Today,’ ” he read, “ ‘my youngest child had a child. They have named him Sebastian, and he is hale and healthy. I am grateful Hester and her fine young man are content to remain on the island, to make their home and family here. My other children are so far away now, and though from time to time I look into the glass to see them, my heart aches that I am unable to touch their faces, or the faces of my grandchildren.“ ‘I will never leave the island again.“ ‘This, also, I have seen in the glass. I have time yet on this earth, and I know death is not an end. But when I see this beauty of life in this babe of my babe, I am saddened that I will not be here to see him grown.’ ”

He risked a quick glance at Ripley, saw she was staring at him as if she’d never seen him before. Best to finish it all, he told himself. Just get it all out at one time.

“ ‘I am saddened that my own mother did not choose life,’ ” he continued, “ ‘that she denied herself the joy I have felt this day on seeing a child come from one of my own.“ ‘Time moves swiftly. What comes from this boy will one day balance the scales, if our children remember and choose wisely.’ ”

Though she’d forgotten she held it, Ripley’s knuckles were white on the stem of her glass. “Where did you get this?”

“Last summer I was going through some boxes in the attic of my parents’ house. I found the journal. I’d been through those boxes before. I used to drive my mother crazy because I was always pawing through the old stuff. I don’t know how I missed it, unless you subscribe to the theory that it wasn’t there for me until last June.”

“June.” When a shudder worked through her, Ripley got to her feet. Nell had come to the island in June—and the three had linked. She sensed that Mac started to speak, and she held up a hand. She needed to focus.

“You’re assuming this was written by an ancestor.”

“Not assuming. I’ve done the genealogy, Ripley. Her name was Constance, and her youngest daughter, Hester, married James MacAllister on May15 ,1757. Their first child, a son, Sebastian Edward MacAllister, was born on Three Sisters Island. He fought in the Revolutionary War. Married, had children, settled in New York. The line runs down through my mother, and into me.”

“You’re telling me you’re a descendant of . . .”

“I have all the documentation. Marriage records, birth records. You could say we’re really distant cousins.”

She stared at him, then turned to stare into the fire. “Why didn’t you tell us when you first came here?”

“Okay, that’s a little sticky.” He wished she would sit back down, cuddle up against him again. But he didn’t think that was going to happen until they got through this. “I thought I might have to use it as an incentive, a kind of bargaining chip.”

“Your ace in the hole,” she remarked.

“Yeah. If Mia put up roadblocks, I figured this information would be a good way to knock some of them down. But she didn’t, and I started to feel uncomfortable about withholding it. I was going to tell her tonight. But I needed to tell you first.”

“Why?”

“Because you matter. I realize you’re ticked off, but—”

She shook her head. “Not really.” Unsettled, she thought, but not angry. “I’d’ve done the same thing to get what I wanted.”

“I didn’t know you’d be here. You know what I mean. You. I didn’t know we’d be involved like this. I’m in what most people consider an illogical field. It’s only more essential to approach it logically. But under it, on a personal level, I’ve been pulled to this place all my life without knowing where it was that I was being pulled. Last summer I finally knew.”

“But you didn’t come.”

“I had to gather data, research, analyze, fact-check.”

“Always the geek.”

She sat on the arm of the couch. It was, he thought, a step. “I guess. I dreamed of the island. Before I knew where it was—or if it was—I dreamed of it. I dreamed of you. All of that was so strong, so much a part of my life, that I needed to approach it the way I’d been trained. As an observer, a recorder.”

“And what do your observations tell you, Dr. Booke?”

“I’ve got reams of data, but I don’t think you’d be interested in reading it.” She shook her head at his questioning look. “Right. But I’ve also got one simple feeling. That I’m where I’m supposed to be. I have a part in this. I just don’t know, yet, exactly what it is.”

She was up again. “A part in what?”

“Balancing the scales.”

“Do you believe, in that detail-filing brain of yours, that this island is doomed to fall into the sea? How can you buy some centuries-old curse? Islands don’t just sink like swamped boats.”

“There are a number of respected scholars and historians who would argue that point, using Atlantis as their example.”

“Of which you would be one,” she said sourly.

“Yeah, but before you get me started on that and I bore you senseless, let me just say that there’s always room for less-than-literal interpretations. A force five hurricane, an earthquake—”

“Earthquake?” She’d felt the earth tremble under her feet. She’d made the earth tremble. And didn’t want to think of it. “Jesus, Mac!”

“You don’t want me to start on plates and pressure and shifts, do you?”

She opened her mouth, shut it again, and settled for shaking her head.

“Didn’t think so. I’ve got degrees in geology and meteorology, and I can get really boring. Anyway, put simply, Nature’s a bitch and she barely tolerates us.”

She studied him consideringly. Earnest, sexy, quiet. Somehow unshakably confident. Hardly a wonder that she’d fallen for him.

“You know what? I bet you’re not as boring when you get going as you think.”

“You’d lose.” Because he thought she would accept it now, he reached out to take her hand. “Heaven and Earth, Ripley, do more than hold us between them. They expect us to deserve it.”

“And we have to decide how far we’ll go.”

“That pretty much wraps it up.”

She puffed out her cheeks, blew out a breath. “It gets harder to tell myself this is all crap. First Nell, then you, and now this,” she added glancing down at the copies of journal pages. “It starts to feel like

somebody’s added bars to a cage, so there’s less and less chance of squeezing out again.”

She frowned down at the pages as another thought sprang into her head. “You’ve got a blood connection to the Sisters.” Her gaze flashed up to his. “Do you have magic?”

“No. Seems like a rip-off to me,” he said. “I may have inherited the interest, the fascination, but none of the practical usage.”

She relaxed and slid down on the seat beside him. “Well, that’s something at least.”

 

 

Chapter Fifteen

Mia read the first journal entry while sitting at her desk in her office. A freezing rain had come in behind the wind and was now battering her window.

She’d dressed in bright, bold blue to dispel the gloom and wore the little stars and moons Nell had given her for her last birthday at her ears. As she read, she toyed with them, sending star colliding with moon. When she’d finished the entry, she leaned back and studied Mac with amusement. “Well, hello, cousin.”

“I wasn’t sure how you’d take it.”

“I try to take things as they come. May I keep these a while? I’d like to read the rest of them.”

“Sure.”

She set the pages aside, picked up her latté. “It’s all so nice and tidy, isn’t it?”

“I realize it’s quite a coincidence,” he began, but she stopped him.

“Coincidence is often what tidies things up. I can trace my family back to its start on the Sisters. I know some stayed, some scattered. And I remember now, there was a MacAllister branch. The one son, among three daughters. He left the island, survived a war, and began to make his fortune. Odd, isn’t it, that I didn’t think of that until now, or connect it with you? I suppose I wasn’t meant to. Still, I felt something for you. A kinship. That’s nice and tidy, too. And comforting.”

“Comfort wasn’t my first reaction when I put it all together.”

“What was?”

“Excitement. Descended from a witch and a silkie. How cool is that?” He broke off a piece of the applesauce muffin she’d urged on him. “Then I was pretty irked that I didn’t get any power out of the deal.”

“You’re wrong.” The affection and admiration in her voice nearly made him flush. “Your mind is your power. The strength and the openness of that mind make very strong magic. Stronger yet because it doesn’t close off your heart. We’ll need both.” She waited a beat. “She’ll need you.”

It gave him a jolt. Mia had said it so quietly, so simply. “Do me a favor and don’t mention that to Ripley.

It’ll just piss her off.”

“You understand her, recognize all of her various flaws, numerous shortcomings, and irritating habits. But you love her anyway.”

“Yes, I . . .” He trailed off, set the muffin aside. “That was very sneaky.”

“I’d apologize, but I wouldn’t mean it.” Her laughter was too warm and soft to sting. “I thought you were in love with her, but I wanted to hear you say it. Can you be happy living on the island?”

He said nothing for a moment. “You really know her, don’t you? Ripley would never be happy anywhere else. So, yes, I can be happy here. I’ve been heading here all my life, in any case.”

“I like you, very much. Enough to wish, just a little, that it had been me you were meant for. And you,” she added when he looked slightly panicked, “who’d been meant for me. Since neither of those things is, I’m glad we can be friends. I think you’ll help each other find the best you can be.”

“You really love her, don’t you?”

For an instant, Mia’s calm ruffled. Color washed her cheeks, a rare occurrence. Then she shrugged. “Yes, nearly as much as I’m irritated by her. Now, I trust you’ll keep that to yourself as I keep your feelings to myself.”

“Deal.”

“And to seal it—” She rose and turned to the shelves behind her. She took down a carved wooden box and, opening it, removed a star-shaped pendant of silver, set with a sunstone.

“This has been in my family—our family,” she corrected, “since we began here on the Sisters. It’s said that she who was mine forged the pendant from a fallen star and the stone from a sunbeam. I’ve kept it for you.”

“Mia—”

But she only kissed him lightly and slipped the chain over his head. “Blessed be, cousin.”

Harding paid one more visit to Evan Remington. His plans were set, his schedule outlined. But he felt it imperative to see Remington again before he left. He felt an odd kinship with the man. The realization of it was both appalling and alluring to him. Remington was a kind of monster. And yet . . .Didn’t all men have that beast lurking inside them? The sane, the civilized—and Harding considered himself both—restrained it. Controlled it. He supposed it only made those who did neither—who indulged it, kept it fed and ready—more fascinating.

He told himself that his regular visits to Remington were research. Business. But in truth, he had come to find those frequent brushes with evil thrilling. We were all one step away from the pit, Harding thought, composing notes in his head as he waited to be admitted. Only by observing, by learning from those who had fallen, would we understand what waited for us on the other side of sanity.

Harding stepped into the visitation room, heard the echo of the lock. Is that the last sound we hear as we fall? he wrote in his head. The hopeless shooting of the bolt? Remington wasn’t restrained this time. Harding had already been told that as part of his treatment and rehabilitation, Remington had been taken off full restraints. He’d exhibited no violence to others or himself and had been responsive and cooperative in recent sessions.

The room was small, and nearly empty. One table with two chairs. While the restraints were missing, Harding heard the bright jingle of chain from the cuff on Remington’s right wrist. There was a third chair in the corner, occupied now by a broad-shouldered, pasty-faced guard. Security cameras recorded every sound and movement.

The pit, Harding thought, whatever name we gave it, offered no privacy and little comfort.

“Mr. Remington.”

“Evan.” Today you could hardly see the madness. “After all this, we can hardly be formal. I’ll call you Jonathan. Do you know, Jonathan, you’re the only one who comes to talk to me? They tell me my sister’s been here. But I don’t remember. I remember you.”

The voice was quiet but perfectly clear. Harding experienced a small inward shudder as he remembered just how Remington had looked and sounded on his first visit. He was still thin, and too pale, his hair lank. But Harding thought if you put him back in a designer suit and shipped him off to L.A., his associates would take a look and simply think he’d been working a bit too hard.

“You’re looking well. Evan.”

“Hardly my best, but one must take the facilities into account.” A muscle twitched in his cheek. “I don’t belong here. My attorneys bungled the entire business. But I’ve taken care of that. Dealt with that. Stupid, incompetent bastards. I’ve fired them. I expect to have new representation within the week. And my freedom shortly after.”

“I see.”

“I think you do.” Remington leaned forward, then he gazed up toward the security cameras. “I think you do see. I was defending myself and mine.” His eyes stayed on Harding’s now, and something dark seemed to swim behind their colorless surface.

“I was betrayed and misused. Those who stood against me, they belong in here. Not I.”

Harding couldn’t look away, couldn’t break the connection. “Your ex-wife?”

“My wife,” Remington corrected, then in barely a whisper mouthed, “Till death do us part. Tell her I’m thinking of her when you see her, won’t you?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You can’t finish what you’ve started, you can’t get what you want, until you deal with her, and the rest of them. I’ve thought about it.” Remington nodded slowly and his eyes, pale as water, stayed locked on Harding’s. “I have plenty of time for thinking. I need someone to remind her I haven’t forgotten. I need someone to show them all that I can’t be ignored. An agent, if you will.”

“Mr. Remington. Evan. I’m a reporter. A writer.”

“I know what you are. I know what you want. Fame, fortune, recognition. Respect. I know how to get those things for you. I made it my business to get those things for others. You want to be a star, Jonathan. I make stars.”

Something seemed to move behind his eyes again, like sharks swimming in a deep pool. Harding shuddered, but couldn’t look away. And as his skin crawled cold, he could feel himself being pulled in. His breath came short beneath a terrible pressure in his chest.

“I’m going to write a book.”

“Yes, yes. An important book. You’ll tell it as it’s meant to be told. End it as it needs to be ended. I want them punished.” He reached over with his free hand, clasped Harding’s limp fingers. “I want them dead.”

Something snapped in the air, sizzled, and brought the guard to his feet. “No contact.”

“Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live,” Harding said dully as a fierce grin flashed on Remington’s face.

“No physical contact,” the guard ordered and strode toward the table. But Remington was already breaking his grip.

“I’m sorry.” Remington kept his gaze averted, his head lowered. “I forgot. I just wanted to shake his hand. He comes to visit me. He comes to talk to me.”

“We were just saying good-bye.” To his own ears, Harding’s voice sounded tinny with distance. “I have to take a trip, and won’t be able to visit for a while. I have to go now.” Harding got unsteadily to his feet. A headache blasted in his temples.

Remington lifted his gaze one last time. “I’ll see you again.”

“Yes, of course.”

Remington allowed himself to be led away. He kept his head lowered, shuffled obligingly back to his cell. In his heart, black glee bloomed like a fetid flower. For he had discovered that there was power in madness.

By the time Harding was on the ferry for Three Sisters, he could barely remember his last visit to Remington. It irritated him, made him worry that he was coming down with something. His memory for details was one of his most polished skills. And now an event less than eight hours old was like some sketchy scene behind foggy glass.

He couldn’t remember what they’d spoken of, only that he’d been suddenly struck with a blinding headache. It had made him so ill, he’d been forced to stretch out on the front seat of his car and wait for the chills, the pain, the nausea to pass before he’d dared drive away. Even now, just thinking of it gave him the shakes. His condition wasn’t helped by the fact that the seas were rough and a needle-sharp icy rain was pounding. He had to huddle inside his car, dry-swallow more seasickness pills.

He was terrified that he would have to race through that vicious rain and vomit into the pitching sea. In defense, he once more lay down across the seat, fighting to breathe slowly and evenly. He began to count the minutes until he reached solid land again. And must have fallen asleep. He dreamed of snakes sliding under his skin, the slither of them ice cold. Of a woman with blue eyes and long gold hair who cried out—all pain and pleas—as he brought a cane down, again and again, to batter her.

She’s quiet now. Quiet now. Spawn of Satan. Of a bolt of blue lightning that shot like an arrow out of the sky and into his heart. He dreamed of terror and vengeance and hate. He dreamed of a lovely woman in a white dress who wept as she curled on a marble floor. Of a wood, dark under a new moon, where he stood holding a knife to a smooth white throat. And this time, when it sliced clean and her blood covered him, the world erupted. The sky split and the sea opened its mouth wide, to swallow all who had stood against him.

He awoke with screams strangling in his throat, slapping at himself as if to kill whatever was crawling inside him. For an instant he stared horrified in the rearview mirror. And eyes that weren’t his, eyes pale as water, stared back. Then the ferry let out its blasting note to herald the docking on Three Sisters. The eyes that stared back at him as he dragged out his handkerchief to wipe his damp face were red-rimmed, haunted, and his own.

Just caught a little bug, he assured himself. He’d been working too hard, traveling too much. Crossing time zones too often. He would take a day or two to rest, to let his system catch up. Bolstered by the idea, he snapped on his seat belt, started his car. And drove off the ferry ramp and onto Three Sisters Island.

The storm turned into a gale. On the second day of it, Mac surfaced from his work and took a good look around. He’d had another shipment of books sent in, and replacement parts for some of his equipment. Right now he had pieces of a sensor spread all over the little kitchen table. A monitor that was acting up stood on the counter with its guts spilling out.

The kitchen still smelled of the eggs he’d burned that morning—which, he had to admit, he’d had no business making when his mind was elsewhere. He’d broken a glass, too. And had a nice slice in his heel, since he’d gotten distracted before he swept it all up.

He’d turned the entire cottage into a lab, which wasn’t so bad. But without a lab assistant cleaning things up behind him, he’d also turned it into a disaster. He really didn’t mind working in a disaster area, but it certainly wouldn’t do as a permanent living arrangement. If the cottage was too small to accommodate him and his work on more than the short term, it was certainly too small to accommodate a . . .Ripley, he thought quickly. He wasn’t quite ready to use the term “wife,” even in his thoughts. Not that he didn’t want to marry her, because he did. And not because he doubted she would marry him. He would just wait her out in that area until she caved. He’d match his patience against her stubbornness any day of the week.

But first things first. When a man wanted to settle down permanently, he had to find a place to settle. However much affection he had for the cottage, it wouldn’t fill the bill. And he doubted seriously if Mia would sell it. He rose, and managed not only to tread on a screw but to step on it at the exact point of his recent cut. He spent a little time on some inventive cursing and hobbled out to find the shoes he’d thought he’d already put on. He found a pair in the bedroom doorway, where they had obviously planted themselves, cagily waiting for him to trip over them. And holding them, took a look at the bedroom. Winced.

He didn’t usually live like a slob. Okay, he admitted, he didn’t usually intend to live like a slob. It just happened. Forgetting the shoes, he pushed up his sleeves. He would shovel out the bedroom and use the manual labor to clear his mind. He needed to think about a house. It needed to be a pretty good size so his equipment didn’t get in everybody’s way. He would need an office, too.

Not entirely sure when he might have changed his sheets last, he decided to err on the side of caution and stripped them off. It would be good if there was space to set up weights and exercise equipment. Ripley would want some space of her own, too, he imagined, and started gathering up socks, shirts, underwear. Somewhere she could get away from him when he started to drive her crazy.

His mother called hers an escape hatch, he remembered, and reminded himself to phone home. He carted the laundry to the tiny room off the kitchen, missed stepping on the same screw by a hair, and stuffed everything that would fit into the washing machine. He added soap, then deciding he should write down some of the basic house requirements, wandered out to find a pad and forgot to turn on the washing machine.

Three bedrooms minimum, he thought. Four would be better. Someplace close to the water. Not that anywhere on the island was far from it, but Ripley was used to living right on the beach so . . .

“Booke, you idiot! It’s staring you right in the face. You knew the first time you saw it.”

He dashed to the phone and dialed long distance information. “New York City,” he told the operator. “I need the number for Logan Enterprises.”

An hour later, to celebrate what he considered the first step in becoming a homeowner, he braved the elements. Thaddeus Logan hadn’t jumped at the offer, but he hadn’t dismissed it out of hand, either. It hadn’t hurt that Logan was acquainted with Mac’s father. Connections within connections, Mac thought as he hissed in his breath and decided to walk to Café Book rather than risk the iced-over roads in his Rover.

He had a good feeling about it, and he was certain Logan would negotiate. Which reminded Mac—he should call his father for advice in that area. The one thing he was sure of was if you wanted something too much, and the other party knew it, you were asking to get skinned. He needed to do some research on real estate values in the area, and he patted his pockets absently, hoping for a handy piece of paper to make a note to himself.

Not that the money mattered all that much, but the principle did. And he imagined that if he let himself get taken, Ripley would get torqued about it. That would start the whole process off on a bad note. Tomorrow, Mac promised himself, he would take a drive and get another good look at what was going to be theirs.

Delighted with the idea, he strolled along, head down, as the wind screamed in his ears and the ugly mix of ice and snow swirled and spat. Just look at him, Ripley thought. Out in this mess when he doesn’t have to be. Not looking where he’s going and bopping along as if it’s a sunny day in July. The man needs a keeper. She would just have to take on the job. She started toward him, then judging time and distance, planted herself. And let him walk straight into her.

“Jeez.” Since she was braced and he wasn’t, he went skidding. Reflexively he grabbed her, and that took them both on a fast slide. “Sorry.”

But she was laughing, and the little elbow jab she gave him was friendly. “How many walls do you walk into on your average day?”

“I don’t count. It’s demoralizing. Gosh, you’re pretty.” He grabbed her again, but was steady this time. Lifting her to her toes, he planted a long, warm kiss on her mouth.

Her system tilted, sweetly. “What I am is cold and wet. My nose is red, and my toes are ice cubes. Zack and I just spent a miserable hour out on the coast road. We’ve got power lines down, and cars off the road, and the best part of a tree through Ed Sutter’s workshop roof.”

“Nice work if you can get it.”

“Very funny. I think the worst of it’ll blow out by tomorrow,” she said, looking, as islanders had for centuries, out to sea and sky. Both were gray as pewter. “But we’re going to be cleaning up after this one for a while yet. What the hell are you doing out here? You lose power?”

“It was on when I left. I wanted some decent coffee.” He clued in to the direction from which she’d come, and the direction she’d been going. “Were you coming to check on me?”

“It’s my job to check on the residents of our happy little rock.”

“That’s really considerate of you, Deputy Todd. How about I buy you a cup of coffee?”

“I could use it, and someplace warm and dry for ten minutes.”

He took her hand as they headed into the wind up High Street. “How about if I buy a quart of soup and whatever, take it home? We can have dinner at my place later.”

“Chances of the power lasting in the cottage through the night are slim. We’ve got a generator at our place. Why don’t you pack what you need and plan on staying there tonight?”

“Is Nell cooking?”

“Is grass green?”

“I’m there.” He pulled open the door for her.

Like magic, Lulu popped out from behind a bookshelf. “I should’ve known it was a couple of lunatics. Sensible people are home whining about the weather.”

“Why aren’t you?” Ripley asked.

“Because there are just enough lunatics on this island to keep the store open. Got a few of them up in the café right now.”

“That’s where we’re heading. Did Nell go home?”

“Not yet. Mia cut her loose, but she’s sticking. Didn’t see why Peg should have to come out in this when she was already here. We’re closing early, in an hour, anyhow.”

“Good to know.”

Ripley pulled off her soaked cap as she started up the stairs. “Do me a favor?” she said to Mac.

“Sure.”

“Can you hang around till closing, make sure Nell gets home safe?”

“Glad to.”

“Thanks. It’ll be a load off. I can let Zack know, and he won’t worry.”

“I’ll ask her to come by my place, help me get my stuff together.”

Ripley shot him a smirk. “Pretty smart, aren’t you?”

“People are always saying so.” He kept her hand in his as they walked to the café counter.

“Zack just called,” Nell told them. “You’ve had a hell of a day, haven’t you?”

“Goes with the territory. You can give me two large coffees to go, and I’ll take one back to him. This guy’s springing for them,” she added, jerking a thumb at Mac.

“A large for me, too, but I’ll have it here. And . . . is that apple pie?”

“It is. Want a slice warm?”

“Oh, yeah.”

Ripley leaned on the counter, idly scanning the café. “I better tell you I invited Mac’s appetite to dinner, and to bunk over.”

“We’re having chicken pot pie.”

Mac’s face lit up. “Homemade chicken pot pie?”

Nell laughed as she fit tops on the takeout cups. “You’re too easy.”

Ripley shifted her body away from the table area. “Who’s the guy sitting by himself?” she asked Nell.

“Brown sweater, city boots.”

“I don’t know. It’s the first time he’s been in. I got the impression he was staying at the hotel. He came in about a half hour ago.”

“Did you chat him up?”

Nell cut a generous slab of pie for Mac. “I spoke with him in a friendly manner. He came in on the ferry a couple of days ago, just beat the nor’easter. People do come here, Ripley.”

“It’s just an odd time for a slicker to head over. No business groups at the hotel now. Anyway.” She took the cups Nell set on the counter. “Thanks. See you later,” she said to Mac, and might have warded off the kiss if her hands hadn’t been full.

“Be careful out there.” He yanked her cap out of her pocket and tugged it onto her head. Harding watched the byplay from behind the newspaper he’d brought over from the hotel. He’d recognized Ripley Todd from his files. Just as he’d recognized Nell. It didn’t explain his reaction to both. He’d expected to feel a nice zing of anticipation as he lined up the players on the stage. Instead, in each case he’d felt nearly ill. A kind of white-hot fury had pumped through him when he’d topped the steps and seen Nell back at the café counter.

He’d been forced to turn away, to walk behind book-shelves until he had himself under control. There he’d sweated like a pig. And had imagined his hands closing around her throat. The violence of the experience had nearly caused him to turn around and leave. But it had passed, almost as swiftly as it had come. And he’d remembered his purpose.

The story, the book. Fame and fortune.

He’d been able to approach the counter, to order lunch, with his usual calm. He wanted a day or two to observe her and the others before he attempted to interview them. He’d already lost some time. For the first twenty-four hours on the island, whatever bug he’d picked up had plagued him. He had been able to do little more than lie in bed, sweating his way through vivid and unpleasant dreams. But he’d felt better by that afternoon. Nearly himself again.

He was still shaky, Harding told himself. There was no doubt about that. But a little food and a little exercise would help right him. The soup had certainly soothed his system, at least until the brunette had walked in. Then the clamminess had come back. The headache, the unexplained rage. He had the strangest image of her, pointing a gun at him, shouting at him, and he’d wanted to leap up and pummel her face with his fists.

Then another, fast on its heels, where she loomed over him in a storm, her hair blowing and tipped with light, and a sword that gleamed like silver gripped in her hands. He thanked God she was leaving, and that the strange mood was leaving with her. Still, his hand trembled as he picked up his spoon again.

Ripley brought Zack his coffee and sipped her own while he finished a phone call. As she paced she heard him reassuring someone about the storm, emergency procedures, medical aid. Had to be a new resident, Ripley thought. Probably the Carters, who’d moved on-island in September. There was no one else new enough to the Sisters to panic over a midwinter storm.

“Justine Carter,” Zack confirmed when he hung up. “Storm’s making her buggy.”

“She’ll get used to it, or head back to the mainland before next winter. Listen, I told Mac to come to our place tonight. Power’s bound to go.”

“Good idea.”

“And I asked him to hang at the bookstore until Nell leaves, to make sure she gets home okay.”

“And an even better one. Thanks. What’s up?”

“Maybe the storm’s making me buggy. I got an itch over this guy I saw at the café. Can’t pin it down. City. New boots, manicure, upper-end-department-store clothes. Late forties. Strong build, but he looked a little sickly to me. Pale, sweaty.”

“Flu runs around this time of year.”

“Yeah, well. I thought I’d go by the hotel, see if I can wheedle some information on him.”

Because he trusted Ripley’s instincts, Zack pointed to the phone. “Call them and save yourself another trip out in this mess.”

“No, I’ll get more in person. He gave me the jitters, Zack,” she admitted. “The guy was just sitting there reading his paper and eating his lunch, but he gave me the jitters. I want to check it out.”

“Okay. Let me know.”

 

 

Chapter Sixteen

Procedures, taken in planned steps after calculations and hypotheses. The tools of his work. Science, even that still considered out of the mainstream. These were all familiar to him. They were, had always been to Mac, a kind of comfort as well as a path to discovery. For the first time since he’d started on that path, he was uneasy. He’d never worried overmuch about taking risks, as nothing worthwhile could be gained without them. But each step he took now pushed him farther down a strange and fascinating road. One he wasn’t traveling solo.

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

Nell shifted her gaze up to where Mac leaned over the top of her head. “I’m sure.”

“It’s just that I don’t want you to feel obliged.” He attached the next electrode. “Don’t think you have to be polite to the crazy man. You can just tell me to forget it.”

“Mac. I don’t think you’re crazy, and I don’t feel polite. I feel interested.”

“That’s good.” He skirted around the sofa where she was stretched out, looked down at her. As he’d told her once before, she sparkled. She was also, he sensed, very open. “I’m going to be careful. I’m going to go slow. But anytime you want to stop, you just say so. And that’s it.”

“Got it, and I will.” Her dimples fluttered. “Stop worrying about me.”

“It’s not just you.” At her questioning look, he dragged a hand through his hair. “Everything I do now, even somehow what I don’t do, affects Ripley. I don’t know how I know that. It’s not really logical. But I know it.”

“You’re connected,” Nell said softly. “As I am. Neither of us will do anything to hurt her.” She touched a hand to the back of his. “But both of us will, more than likely, do things that will annoy her. I guess we’ll just have to handle it.”

“I guess we will. Okay, well . . .” He gestured vaguely with the two electrodes in his hands. “I need to put these . . . You see, we’ll need to monitor your heart rate, so. . .”

She looked at the little white adhesive, back up at his face. “Ah.”

“If you feel uncomfortable or weird about that, we’ll just skip that part.”

She studied his expression and decided the only man she trusted more than the one currently trying not to look embarrassed was her husband. “In for a penny,” she said and unbuttoned her blouse. He was quick, efficient, and gentle.

“Just relax and be comfortable. We’ll get your resting rates.”

He turned away from her to work with the machines that he’d hauled over from the cottage. He hadn’t intended to bring them, or to do the test—not yet. But when Nell had come back to the cottage with him, she’d asked questions. Polite interest at first, he thought, then more direct, more detailed. Before either of them realized it, they were discussing physical reactions of magic. Brain-wave patterns, lobes, pulse rates. And she was agreeing to participate in a series of tests.

“So, where’d you learn to cook?”

“My mother. That’s where my interest started. After we lost my father, she started her own catering business.”

He adjusted dials, watched the graph. “Ever think about opening a restaurant?”

“I gave it a passing thought, but I don’t want the structure or the limitations. I like my catering operation, and working in Mia’s café. Though I am toying with ideas there. I think we—she,” Nell corrected, “could expand a bit. Outdoor seating in the season. Maybe a cooking club. I’m going to talk to her about it when I have it more formulated in my mind.”

“You’ve got a head for business.”

“Oh, absolutely.” And she said it with no small sense of pride. “I ran that end of my mother’s operation. I like to organize.”