Divine by Choice (22 page)

“I'll take coffee, if it's not too much trouble.”

“Already have some made,” Dad spoke up. “Hope you like it strong,” he said to Clint.

“I do.” Clint smiled.

“Bugs, I believe I have some single malt in that cupboard that you haven't touched in more than six months, in case your taste has turned back to it.”

Hearing him use my nickname made tears rush to my eyes, and I had a hard time focusing on pouring Clint's coffee—until I processed the rest of what he had said. I love single-malt scotch. I have since my first trip to Scotland more than a decade ago. But I had learned during my time in Partholon that Rhiannon loathed scotch. She thought it was common. Dad's comment was a tangible reminder that she had been here; she had been poking through and intruding upon yet another aspect of my life. It made me feel pissed off and violated.

I nuked some warm water for my tea and carried both mugs into the living room.

“Do you need anything else, Dad?”

“Nope. I'm still working on my Baileys and coffee.” He looked curiously at me and added, “You know I usually don't
drink coffee so late, but something told me I should stay awake tonight.”

I sat on the couch next to Clint, and tugged fretfully at my tea bag.

“Still don't have a taste for your scotch, huh? I think you drank all of that expensive red wine you brought over that time…” His voice trailed off like he didn't want to complete the memory.

“No! I mean, yes!” I shook my head, trying to think clearly. “What I mean is, I still love scotch. I just think hot tea is a wiser choice tonight.” And, I added silently, for the next seven months or so.

We sipped our drinks quietly. I didn't know where to begin, but just being in the familiar room made me feel better, stronger, more able to cope with the horrors of the day.

I blinked and said abruptly, “Where's Mama Parker?” My stepmom's absence was suddenly keenly felt. She should have been bustling around, insisting on fixing us something to eat, fussing about getting me out of these dirty, wet clothes. In general, doing mom things that always made me feel loved. I was ashamed I hadn't questioned where she was immediately.

“Mama Parker's been visiting her sister in Phoenix.”

“Without you?” Hard to believe. They've been married for a zillion years, but they still did everything together. It's sweet but disgusting.

“She's had the visit planned for months. I meant to go with her, but one of those idiot yearlings thought he should run through a fence and try and take a leg off, so I stayed to doctor the knot-headed moron.”

I nodded my head in agreement at the familiar litany of horse complaints. There were few things Dad thought stupider than racehorses—and there were few things he loved more.

I knew I should launch into the reason for my visit, but the comfortable conversation made me realize how much I ached for normalcy, even if it was just an illusion and temporary.

“So, how's school?” Until I was swept into the life of High Priestess in another dimension, I had been very happy teaching English at Broken Arrow High School, which just happened to be the same school at which my father had been a teaching/coaching legend for almost three decades. I had loved teaching. Teenagers supplied me with endless comedic fodder. Really. Where else but in the public schools could you find a job that allows you to be onstage every day in front of more than one hundred semi-humanoids (teenagers), where you could come to work several times a year (during Spirit Weeks) dressed in a variety of costumes—everything from “Pajama Day” to “Your Favorite Superhero Day,” where the more embarrassing you look and act the “cooler” you are, and get paid for it? (Well, in Oklahoma we
kind
of get paid for it.) I'm telling you, only in the public schools.

Oh…One thing Dad and I have always been in total agreement about is that teenagers are one of the few creatures that have less sense than racehorses. I watched the slow grin spread over his face.

“Little morons—they get squirrlier every year.” He chuckled. “And this year we hired the most god-awful pansy-assed new vice principal from one of those touchy-feely middle schools. Silly bastard wouldn't know discipline if it came up and bit him. All he does is move furniture, screw with the thermostat in the teachers' lounge and sneak around the halls trying to catch us leaving our classrooms unsupervised when we go get a goddamn cup of coffee. I swear he squats to pee.” He shook his head and gave me a long-suffering look. “Damn good thing you got out of it when you did.”

At his mention of my change in career, the warmth I'd been
feeling from the familiar talk chilled. I studied my tea miserably.

“You look bad, Bugs.” Dad's voice tried for a joking tone, but the lines that creased his forehead deepened as he spoke. “You want to tell me what's going on?”

My eyes shot up to his. I never could hide much from him—actually I've never tried. Even as a teenager I told him everything. I blinked as a sudden thought washed over me. Maybe Rhiannon hadn't been able to hide her true nature from him, either. Maybe he'd
known
Rhiannon hadn't been me.

I took a deep breath and squared my shoulders.

“I don't know how to begin. It's complicated.”

“Life's complicated,” he said simply. “Just start at the beginning—we'll work it from there.”

“Dad, I haven't been me for the past six months.”

Dad nodded his head and agreed. “Yep, yep. You were damn rude to Mama Parker. Good thing she loves you so much. Glad you're back to normal now and—”

I held up my hand to stop him.

“No, I don't mean I haven't been
acting
like myself. I mean I haven't
been
me—
literally.”

Whatever comment he was getting ready to make died on his lips as he studied my face.

“Explain what you mean, Shannon Christine.”

His use of my middle name told me he was taking me seriously.

“Do you remember that six months ago I had an accident?”

“A car accident—of course I remember. You were out of it for days. Worried us practically to death. I knew you were going to wrap that damn Mustang around something some day. Too fast…” he muttered and shook his head in disgust, ready to rekindle an old argument.

“It wasn't a normal accident, Dad. And I didn't wrap it around anything,” I added, exasperated. “I bought a pot at an estate auction. It was an old burial urn. On it was a picture of the High Priestess Goddess Incarnate for Epona.”

“Celtic horse goddess.” He nodded. (Dad's a well-read man, as the mounds of books all over the living room can testify to.)

“The goddess was me—or more accurately, my mirror image,” I paused to be sure he was getting all of this, “from another world in another dimension. A world where mythology exists instead of technology, and where some of the people there mirror the people here.”

“Shannon, this is a silly-assed thing to joke around about.”

“I'm not joking!” I looked at Clint who, until now, had remained silent. “Tell him,” I prompted.

“Sir—” Clint's steady voice seemed to lend sanity to mine “—hear her out. She's telling you the truth, and she can prove it.”

My eyes narrowed briefly and I shot him a
what-the-hell-are-you-talking-about
look. Prove it? Clint just nodded encouragement.

I cleared my throat and turned back to Dad. “The pot caused my accident, and more than that. It caused me to be pulled into the other world and exchanged for my mirror image, the Goddess Epona's Incarnate.”

His eyes widened, but he didn't interrupt.

“So the bitch that has been screwing with my life and my family and my friends for the past six months hasn't been me!” I finished in a rush.

“You're saying you have physically not been in this world?”

I nodded.

“And the woman who quit your job, married then buried a millionaire and has been jetting all over the US of A isn't actually you?”

“That's what I'm saying.”

“Shannon…” He started shaking his head. “Do you have any idea how flat out crazy that sounds?”

“Hell yes!” I stifled the impulse to scream and continued in a more normal voice. “I'm the one living it, and it sounds ridiculous to me.” I closed my eyes and rubbed my temples as nausea growled in my stomach and a headache pounded with each heartbeat. He wasn't going to believe me.

Then Clint's strong hand was kneading the knotted muscles of my neck. “Mr. Parker—” he spoke with the calm voice of reason “—it's late and Shannon has been through a lot today. Maybe it would be best if we slept on this and finished explaining in the morning.”

“You do look like hell, girl,” Dad said to me.

I opened my eyes. “Dad, Suzanna's dead.”

He jolted in surprise. “Little Suzanna! My God, how did that happen?”

Clint broke in. “That's only part of the story, Mr. Parker. Right now it's enough that you know that it just happened tonight, and Shannon had to watch her die.” His voice had taken on a hard protective edge that surprised me.

I watched my dad's eyes narrow speculatively at the man sitting beside me. “All right then, son. Let's get our girl to bed.” Dad walked over to the couch and took my hand from my forehead, pulling me to my feet. He hugged me, patting my back. Then he sniffed at me. “Good lord, Bugs, you smell terrible.”

“I know,” I said miserably.

Still holding my hand, he pulled me toward the hall that led to the bedrooms, grabbing the oil lamp from its resting place in the foyer. The first room to the left was the guest room. Dad opened the door and walked into the room, fumbling in the bedside table's top drawer for matches to light
the thick, vanilla-scented candles that decorated the dresser, then he turned and looked pointedly at Clint.

“This is Shannon's room. I'll bunk you up in the daybed in the office. That all right with you?”

“Yes, sir.” Clint held his gaze.

Dad nodded and grunted before turning back to me. “I think there are some old nightshirts and other things of yours in the dresser there, and I imagine there's enough hot water for you to take a quick shower.” He wrinkled his nose at me. “You need it. We'll get all this straightened out in the morning.”

I stepped gratefully into his embrace and whispered, “I love you, Dad,” against his chest.

“I love you, too, old Bugsy.” Then he turned and pushed Clint out of the doorway. “Come with me, son,” he said before firmly closing my door.

Dad's typical protectiveness made me smile as I rummaged through the top drawer of the dresser. Sure enough, I found a couple pairs of my old jeans, and a well-worn sweatshirt, as well as one of my favorite old nightshirts, the one that had a picture of Santa pooping down a chimney. The caption read
How to tell if you've
really
been bad.
It had been a Christmas gift from a student.

“Oh, what a beautiful sight!” I sighed happily as I also found a pair of my panties—soft violet silk from Victoria's Secret—
with
a butt. “Damn, I'll be glad to get out of these thongs!” It's amazing how little it takes to make me happy when I'm stressed.

Dad was right. There was just enough hot water for a quick but complete shower. The water acted as a tranquilizer, and I barely pulled the nightshirt over my head and stumbled back to my room before my eyes began to blur and close. I blew out the candles and crawled under the quilt my grandma had
made decades ago. Reaching down to the foot of the bed, I unfolded the goose down comforter and pulled it snuggly around my shoulders. I breathed in deeply. The sweet scent of vanilla mingled with the unique smell of the clean, well-used old quilt; it was the scent of memories, reminding me drowsily of my childhood as I surrendered to the feeling of security and let sleep claim me.

I know for most people it's hard to tell such things as they sleep, but my sleep has always been mine to manipulate, and I knew I slept deeply and dreamlessly for hours, so my unconscious body felt rested and refreshed when my spirit drifted into DreamLand.

I was reclining on gigantic down-filled pillows that floated on violet-colored cumulus clouds. Fat black-and-white cats were lounging around me, purring contentedly. Jamie Fraser (of Diana Gabaldon's Outlander books) was explaining to me (in his sexy Scottish brogue) that he was dumping Claire and that I was now his true love. Hugh Jackman (in his Wolverine persona) was frowning in displeasure at Jamie, but he said he wouldn't duel for my affections until he had finished giving me a proper foot rub. I opened my mouth to tell the boys to be good and not fight over little ol' me…

…
And I found myself sucked out of my body and through the roof of my parents' ranch house. Hovering in the snowy sky was a bizarre experience. It was like the white crystals were inside me and around me all at the same time.