Lure of Song and Magic (16 page)

Malcolms, like his son.

Oz's great-grandmother on his mother's side was a Malcolm.

Chapter 22

Pippa picked at the slices of old melon the waitress delivered, but her head was too confused to care if she ate or not.

Somewhere
out
there, I have a family.

She was sitting across the table from a woman who had just opened a world she had desperately sought all her life—a family with turquoise eyes and weird gifts. One where she might fit in, one who might actually want her and accept her as she was, warts and all.

She didn't know how to feel. She'd spent so long teaching herself numbness that she was terrified to feel joy. She didn't trust happiness. She was one sick, pathetic excuse for a human being. Maybe, if she could believe this woman really was family…

Could that possibly mean that she had a mother somewhere who had trained her to access her Voice? Did that mean it wasn't evil? Or on the flip side—had her mother thought she was evil and that's why she'd been abandoned?

That was just the very tip of the iceberg of questions she sat on and the reason she couldn't jump for joy just yet.

She feared she'd choke on the subjects threatening to tumble out in confusion and that she'd say something that would drive this one connection to her family fleeing into the night.

“Conan can investigate the store and website,” Oz said in that take-charge manner that would have irritated her, except she was too paralyzed to object. “We need to find a place for Mrs. Wainwright to stay. It's too late to check her in at the B&B. What if I give her the key to my room, and I stay with you?”

Not a choice guaranteed to jar her into action. She had one bed. He wanted to share it.

“You could go back to L.A.,” Pippa managed to say in a dead tone that shouldn't drive anyone off a cliff.

“I'd rather not. It's late. Your place is closer. And by morning, we'll have a dozen more questions to share. I've got half the production crew setting up on Monday, so we need to work quickly.”

His son. Oz wanted to find his son. She understood the urgency. If she made it all about the boy—she could do this. Wrapping her defensive shield tightly around her, she nodded. “Rest is good. Can Conan find some way of giving Mrs. Wainwright—”

“Jean, dear. No one has called me Wainwright in a thousand years.”

“Jean.” The name felt wrong, but Pippa tried to stay on track. Too many lions and tigers and bears lurked beyond the yellow brick road. Stick to the known. “Jean needs a new identity if she feels she's in danger.” Another of those unasked questions. Why might she be in danger? Who had driven her car off the road?

“One of those things we need to consider. Let's go where we can talk privately.” Impatiently, Oz laid a large bill on the table, caught Pippa's hand, and dragged her from the booth.

She wanted to shake him off or throw him over her shoulder as she would have a week ago. But she thought he might be part of the road she needed to follow right now, so she stupidly clutched his fingers. Maybe he needed this grounding as much as she did. His emotions had to be as volatile as hers, but he expressed them with action. While she did the opposite. She almost smirked at that realization.

Oz assisted Jean from the booth and offered his arm for her to lean on. She declined.

“The doctors say the muscles are atrophied. I'm determined to exercise them.” She walked with dignity through the empty diner, one step ahead of them, using her cane only for balance. What had happened to her?

So many questions… Donal. Stick to the boy. Pippa waited until they were back in the car with no prying ears to hear. “Do you know why the Librarian mentioned a song that doesn't exist?” she asked neutrally once everyone was in their seats and buckling up.

“The song exists if the Librarian knows about it,” Jean said. “If you don't know it, then we need to find it. Perhaps there's a clue in it.”

No clue that Pippa knew of. It was a song of loneliness and abandon, with a humorous ending for the sake of any child who might listen.

“The two of you are dancing around each other, playing games, while my son might be held by a lunatic!” Oz interjected angrily, hitting the gas and peeling out of the parking lot. “I understand Jean is trying to protect us, but until
all
the facts are on the table, we can't move forward. No one can hear us here. So let's get talking, ladies. Jean, how do you know the crash that harmed you was deliberate?”

“Quit bullying,” Pippa muttered. “We don't have to tell you anything.”

“I'm betting I know a damned sight more than either of you, and if I hadn't bullied you out of your cave, you wouldn't be this far down the road of knowledge,” he countered.

“If I'd stayed home, I wouldn't be out in the desert fearing we're being stalked by maniacs!” Pippa knew that was irrational and that she was in danger of venting her Voice in the confines of a car. That could be deadly, as she knew too well. She shut up and fought her frustration internally.

Jean began singing “Amazing Grace” in a pleasant soft soprano.

Just those few bars, and Pippa's frozen shield dissolved, evaporating like a mirage in the desert. Some internal key unlocked, and she saw the world with the wonder of a child, memories of comfort and security tumbling free so vividly that they brought tears to her eyes.

Pippa hummed the last few bars with her eyes closed, tears rolling down her cheeks. The moment was so familiar…

“Let the bad feelings go,” Jean sang with the tune. “Let grace lead you home.”

“I always thought Grace was a nanny like Mary Poppins,” Pippa said, without thought. Then covered her mouth in shock. Had
she
said that?

“I hope your bully knows what he's doing,” Jean said quietly, her voice tired. “You loved watching
Mary
Poppins
. It's the only movie you ever asked for.”

How could a stranger know—?

The familiar voice, the beloved song—

Wrenched back from that brief moment of security, Pippa crash-landed in reality.

Jean Wainwright was not only a turquoise-eyed Malcolm, but her
mother
? Or an aunt. Family. She had known Pippa before… the crash?

The crash. The blazing fire against the sky—

Oh
my
God…

“Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound…”

The music was in Pippa's head, swirling around, crashing like breakers on the shore, crumpling, pounding—

“Oh God, oh, please, I can't—” Pippa keened, holding both hands to her head to quiet the screams that familiar voice and song now invoked. “
Nooooo!
”

At her cry, Oz slammed on the brakes and swerved the card to the side of the road.

Pippa heard the tires squealing. The frantic cursing. She shook with the force of the images flashing across her memory.
Fire!
Smoke! Belching black smoke. Terror—

Strong hands grabbed her, yanking her out of the leather seat and across the console in a masterful triumph over gravity. She couldn't hold back her hysterical, high-pitched keen. She was trembling so hard she couldn't fight him.

“Pippa! Pippa, it's okay. Let it go. Sing a lullaby.” Oz's familiar baritone broke through the flaming film playing in her mind. He rocked her, pushing the seat back and holding her in his lap. Holding. Comforting. “Sing something!”

She didn't know if the order was for her or for—

She couldn't think it. Couldn't believe it. The fire! And screams—

She wept, trembling and burying her face in Oz's jacket, desperately blocking out the terrifying shrieks of horror and anguish. Only his arms around her held her together.

“Siren, honey, it's all right,” the motherly voice soothed, not screamed. From her head? From the backseat. “Siren, baby, it's okay. Come back. I'm here.”

Oz hugged her, holding tight so she didn't fall to pieces as the words seeped into the panic rampaging through her head.
Siren.
The heartbroken scream wailed her name.
Sirennnnnn.

Her keening turned to sobs. She was Siren. Siren had died. Siren had died that awful night, in billows of black smoke and flame.

Syrene had died the same way, on a different night. No, not Syrene.
Robbie.
Robbie had died the way Siren had died. Crashing, tumbling, in an explosion of pain…

She wept so hard she didn't think she could stop. Didn't want to stop. Didn't want to face—

“Pippa, I'm about to bully you,” Oz's voice warned from somewhere in the world outside her head. “The cops are going to check us out if I don't get this rig moving. Your mother is alive. You're alive. Whatever film you're running in your head now, replace it with
Mary
Poppins
. Sing ‘A Spoonful of Sugar' or something sappy. We need to get you home.”

Despite his stern voice, he rocked her, comforting her like a small child.

Pippa choked on a sob and a laugh as “A Spoonful of Sugar” piped from the backseat. The fiery images receded, replaced by the solidity of Oz's arms. She locked the horrors inside their box, rested her head against his broad shoulder, and decided she'd never be able to face him again. She was a coward who couldn't let go. She feared the images would return.

“I'm so sorry,” Jean whispered, faltering over the words to the song. “It's been nearly twenty-five years, and I still see you as a toddler. I want to hug you and hold you so much—” Her voice broke with tears.

“I think you've got some catching up to do. C'mon, sweetheart, let's get you buckled in again.”

Pippa reluctantly released him when he tried to lift her. Clumsily, she scrambled back to her seat, wiping her wet cheeks with the back of her hand, fumbling for the seat belt.

“I'm sorry,” Pippa murmured. “I saw—oh, God.” She scrubbed her eyes again, refusing to look in the backseat. “I can't say it. You're a ghost. You can't be real. I've finally gone around the bend.”

“Nah, you're just a natural-born hysteric,” Oz said with a hint of humor as he pulled the car back on the freeway. “You'd be a great actress if you could harness that passion and use it.”

“Mr. Oswin!” Jean shouted, shocked at his rudeness.

Pippa almost smiled, amazed at how quickly he could recover from drowning in tears. “It's all right. He's being a bully again. He does it for my own good, I think. If I take my rage out on him, I'm not hurting myself or anyone else.”

Which was an amazing freedom in and of itself, she realized. She could scream all her fury and fear at Oz, and they rolled right off his back. She couldn't kill him with her pain.

“Nah,” Oz objected. “I do it because it's fun. And if you hit me, I get to call the shots later.”

In bed. She blushed. If Jean Wainwright was really her mother… She punched Oz's bulging bicep. He didn't flinch. It was a weak punch anyway. She was still too shattered to function.

“He understands then?” Jean asked dubiously. “I learned to shield myself from your cries, but my grandmother had to teach me. Your father… Your father never learned,” she finished with a sigh of regret.

“I drove him away?” Pippa asked, suddenly frozen in terror again. “It was my fault—”

“That we drove off a cliff? Horrors, no child! You were sound asleep in your car seat. A semi rear-ended us. Your father tried to accelerate and get away, but the driver kept ramming us. Your father was a policeman who caught drug dealers. This time, they caught us. We didn't have a chance. I've been hiding from them ever since I was released from the nursing home.”

“You think they may still be after you?” Oz asked warily. “Why?”

“I'm hoping they've forgotten me by now,” she answered wearily. “But Jordie and I worked as a team. I lured the dealers with my Voice and helped my husband trap them. It's not wise to let criminals know what I can do, although I'm not anywhere as talented as Siren.”

The disembodied voice of Pippa's long-lost mother rising from the backseat was disconcerting enough without adding the experience of riding in a luxurious car sailing down the highway, past shadowy boulders and a barren nightscape, speaking of drug dealers and weird gifts. It was too surreal. Like a dream from which she couldn't wake.

“Your name isn't really Jean?” Pippa asked, straining for a memory—and normalcy.

“Like you, I have a lot of names. Your father called me Gloria. Gloria Jean Wainwright Malcolm. We met at a family reunion and were distantly related, but he was all logic and science.”

Her father. She'd had a real father.

“Don't think about it, Pippa,” Oz suggested. “You've had too much for one night. We'll be in El Padre shortly. Sleep on it.”

“But what about Donal?” She found the yellow brick road again, found her footing. The bears might still be out there in the night, but they hadn't caught her yet. Oz was at the end of the road. She muffled a laugh at the fantasy conjured by his name. She ought to write a book.

“I can't tell you where Donal is,” Jean—Gloria—said sadly. “Four years ago, I heard the seal song. That's the reason the Librarian thinks we can help. That's why I've come out of hiding. The seal song is what my grandmother called a siren song. And it's designed to call children.”

Silence fell inside the car as they digested this unreal and explosive new suggestion.

***

“No arguing,” Oz told Pippa after he'd settled Gloria Jean into his room at the B&B. The older woman had been too exhausted for them to torture her with more questions. He steered the Mercedes toward the day care. “I'm not leaving you alone tonight, and I'm not asking any more of you than a pillow for my head.”

It was costing him to say that. He wanted to drag her to a microphone and set her loose with that damned song in front of an audience of every child in the country to see what happened.