Halfway Hexed (23 page)

“What were you chasing that summer? Was it a girl?” There was a knot in my stomach that made it hard to look at him. Something about the memory haunted him. I could see it in his eyes, in the tightness of his mouth.

He didn’t answer at first. It was unsettling since he’s not usually at a loss for words. I waited, muscles clenched.

“My mother died before I really knew her. I wanted to meet her.” He glanced around, a faraway look in his eyes. “Wanted to talk to her. Just once.” It was only a few words, but they captured a heap of carefully guarded emotions.

“What did you do?” I asked softly.

“I called the dead.”

“Did it work?”

“No. And yes.” He rubbed the back of his neck like it exhausted him to think about it. “When she didn’t come at first, we fed more and more power into the spell and opened the incantation, casting it farther, beyond the place she died. A lot of souls returned. Some good. Those were gone in an instant. Some that were stuck on Earth. They were confused or begged for help. And finally there were some spirits that were darker than anything I’ve ever felt. They didn’t want to go back to Hell or wherever they’d been. Those souls wanted to stay. I’d used everything I had in me to bring them. So once they were out, I couldn’t force them back.”

“Oh my gosh.”

“Exactly. That prejudice I have against disenfranchised spirits, I earned it.”

“Why do you think she didn’t come?”

“She died young and innocent. A lot of people described her as being . . .” His jaw muscles worked, and his eyes shone unnaturally bright. “A ngelic. I suppose she’s too far inside to be called back by any magic, even to a son who was desperate to know her.”

I wrapped my arms around him and hugged him tight. Tears dripped from my eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s all right,” he murmured, clearing his throat. “It was a long time ago.”

If Bryn hadn’t been able to call her to him, with all his magic and his bond to her, then there was no way that the woman attached to the brooch was related to him. But the idea that she could be needled me. His magic was the kind I felt best. Better even than my own.

What color were the woman’s eyes? I’d been so focused on her pain that I hadn’t been paying attention to her eye color, but thinking back . . . I pictured her face. Blue, I realized. I was pretty sure they were a familiar deep blue.

I pulled back, wiping my face. “Are you okay?”

“You’re the one who’s crying,” he pointed out mildly, but I noted the flush in his cheeks and the blanched skin of his knuckles where he’d been clenching his fists.

“Can I ask you something else? Unless it’s too hard for you to talk about,” I added.

“Ask.”

“Do you have any pictures of your mom?”

There was a hint of a wry smile. “One or two,” he said. He hesitated, then waved for me to follow him. When he spoke again, his voice was utterly calm, like he was talking about someone else. “I don’t remember when I started collecting them. Lennox thinks I was about five.”

He led me to the library and booted up his computer. He clicked open folders until he reached the one called Cassandra Lyons.

“I’m pretty sure I have the original or a copy of every picture that was ever taken of her. A few years ago, I scanned them all in.”

“To protect the photographs from damage,” I said matter-offactly. “I bet you keep the actual pictures in your impenetrable vault.”

He glanced past me to the door and nodded. “Yes. I keep the originals in the vault.”

I bit my lip, my eyes filling, but I blinked away the tears. He looked at me for a second, then at the screen. Perfect rows of icons. Hundreds—maybe thousands—of hours of work must have gone into getting all of them.

“If I ever have a little boy, that’s how I want him to love me,” I whispered.

His gaze stayed fixed on the monitor, as though he would’ve gladly joined her inside it. His voice came out soft and rough. “That button will play a slideshow or just click to open the individual pictures.” He walked away, going to the far windows, his back to me.

I took a few slow breaths, staring at the keys.
Don’t let it be her.

My fingers trembled, hovering over the buttons. I wanted Cassandra Lyons to be in Heaven, knee-deep in angels and untouchable.

I clenched my jaw to brace myself and clicked the slideshow icon.

There she was. The beautiful brunette from the brooch, the one who’d been running for her life, the one who needed my help. Sparkling cobalt eyes. A tiny dimple in her right cheek when she smiled. Once upon a time—before the brooch—she’d been happy.

My heart squeezed painfully. Why did it have to be her?

I covered my mouth, got up, and walked silently from the room.

Down the hall. Through the kitchen. Out the back door.

I wilted against the gray brick, my shoulders sagging. I bit my lip and closed the door to be sure Bryn wouldn’t hear me when I started crying again.

Chapter 23

It took me a few minutes to pull myself together. I couldn’t decide whether to tell Bryn about the brooch. On one hand, he might be able to help me get it back. On the other, I would shatter his peace of mind. He thought her soul was safe and happy. I didn’t want to take that away from him.

A thick fog made it impossible to see the river. I blew out my breath slowly and shuffled through the grass toward the path that led to the guesthouse.

I wouldn’t call Lennox and me friends, but we did have caring about Bryn in common. And he’d certainly want to know that his wife was trapped in a brooch and needed help. My feet crunched the gravel until I stopped walking. I didn’t know how she’d died. Foul play seemed likely.

“When a woman is killed, the number one suspect is the husband,” I mumbled. That much I knew from being married to a sheriff ’s deputy. Plus, I watch television.

I chewed on my lip, deciding that I’d gather information before giving any away. Assuming that he cooperated, which actually wasn’t all that likely.

I stumbled along. The fog was as thick as cream of mushroom soup. I frowned. We never got much fog in Duvall. Fog was something I associated with places like London. I frowned. Had WAM brought fog with them?

I finally got to the guesthouse and could see that there were lights on inside. I knocked. No one answered, so I knocked again harder.

Finally, the front door opened. Lennox wore a thick black bathrobe and looked like he’d just gotten out of the shower.

“Hello,” I said.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“Can I come in?”

He glanced over my shoulder, though unless his eyes doubled as fog lights, there was no way he could see if someone was lurking behind me.

“I’m alone,” I said.

“What do you want?” he asked again impatiently.

“I need some information.”

He looked me over and then ushered me inside. “Sit there,” he said, pointing to the couch. “If you stray an inch, you’re out.”

I wondered what in the world was going on with him. As I sat down, I noticed that there was brownish grit under his nails. Had he been digging?

He caught me looking and glared. Then he left the room and I heard a heavy door open and close.

I hopped up and crept through the house. Like at Bryn’s, the kitchen faced the water. I jumped when light suddenly cut through the fog. A moment later, I smelled smoke. Lennox was burning something.

My fingers itched to open the door, but if I went outside, I wouldn’t get the information I’d come for. I heard a noise and that decided it. I rushed back to the front room and dove onto the couch.

I positioned myself just in time.

I smelled lighter fluid when he came back into the room.

“Well?” he asked.

“Um, what happened to your wife?”

He blinked. “Come again.”

“You were married to her, right—Bryn’s mother? I want to know how she died.”

“Why didn’t you ask him?”

“Because I thought talking about it might upset him.”

“And you didn’t think it would upset me?” he asked.

“Well—”

“Ah. You did think it would upset me, but you didn’t care.”

“I didn’t say that. I’m not out to upset anyone. But if someone has to be upset, well, better someone who stole something from me and nearly got me killed than someone who didn’t.”

“My wife was murdered.”

“Where? How? Who did it?”

“She was stabbed to death in Revelworth, England, by a man named Simon Pritchard.”

“Why did he kill her?”

“He lost his mind.”

“Did he have any magic? Was he a wizard?”

Lennox crossed his arms over his chest. “Of course. Everyone in Revelworth is a witch or wizard.”

“Oh, right. That’s the town the World Association of Magic took over. The one they ran all the regular nonmagical people out of?”

“Yes.”

“That’s the same place where Bryn got in trouble for trying to raise her ghost?”

He frowned. “Who told you that he tried to call her ghost?”

“He did.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “And what did you do for him that made him inclined to confide in you?”

I glared at him. “We’re friends.”

“Sure you are. Now if that’s all—” He yanked open the front door and pointed toward the fog-laden path.

“One more thing,” I blurted, as he took my arm and helped me to my feet with more enthusiasm than was strictly polite. “What happened to Simon Pritchard?”

Lennox pushed me firmly onto the front step before he answered coldly, “He died for his crime.”

The front door closed, and I stood for a moment, thinking things over. If Simon Pritchard had killed Cassandra Lyons, had he tied her to the brooch? And when he died, who had taken possession of the brooch? Who had mailed it to me?

I needed more answers. I closed my hand around the front door handle and tried to turn it. It didn’t budge, and, what’s more, it was dirty. I lifted my gritty hand to my eyes, but it was too dark to see. Uneasiness oozed through me.

I walked down the path to where there was a small gas lamp. I held my hand near it. Tiny rust-colored flecks marked my palm.

Lennox had been freshly showered, burning something in the backyard, with brownish grit on the door handle and under his nails.
Uh-oh
, I thought. I closed my hand to protect the possible evidence and hurried away from the house.

The fog was like a living thing, its cool breath chilling my arms. I rushed toward the main house, relying on memory and following the pulse of Bryn’s magic. I stumbled a couple of times, but didn’t fall. When I reached the front door, I had to knock because it was locked.

Bryn opened it. “What are you doing out there? I was looking for you.”

“Do you have any more peroxide?”

“Are you hurt?”

“Just a scratch,” I lied. “I’d better clean it.”

He took me upstairs and into the master bathroom. “I don’t normally have such a stash of first aid supplies, but Jenson decided to stock up after last week.”

“Mr. Jenson’s the best,” I said brightly.

Bryn’s hand full of gauze pads paused as he looked at me. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” I said, trying to look innocent. I kept my right hand firmly closed and held out my left. “I don’t need gauze. Just the peroxide bottle please.”

Bryn grabbed the bottle and uncapped it. “I’ll pour.”

I opened my hand, revealing perfectly intact skin and minute reddish brown flecks. “Go ahead and pour a little of that onto my palm.”

He tipped the bottle and a few drops splashed onto my hand. The flecks burst into bubbles the way blood always does when mixed with peroxide.

“Okay,” I said, turning on the tap and washing and rinsing both my hands.

“Okay what?” he asked, his gaze trapping me.

Okay, your mom’s trapped in a missing brooch, and your dad might’ve killed your ex-girlfriend tonight.
I dried my hands on the towel and couldn’t escape the feeling that things were spinning out of control.
As usual.
I put my arms around his neck, hugging him.

“What’s going on?” he demanded.

“Nothing, but, you know, I think we should stay somewhere other than here.”

“Like where?”

“Oh, you know,” I said with a casual shrug. “Any where.”

“Tamara, trust me. Tell me what’s on your mind.”

“The Conclave and Scarface are after us. Gwen’s been murdered, and we’ll both be suspects, especially me. Plus, DeeDAW hasn’t given up. I just think it would be good if we were hard to find for a little while.”

Bryn frowned. I didn’t blame him. A fancy mansion with a library, a vault, and a security detail. Who’d want to leave all that behind?

With my arms around his neck, I pulled his face closer to mine. “I’m going.” I brushed my lips over his. “Come with me,” I whispered.

“There it is,” he said, glancing at my mouth. “The offer he couldn’t refuse.”