Daughter of the Spellcaster (17 page)

Someone had made a fire out here, then scattered its remnants. To make it harder to spot?

He straightened, looking around the area. If those bits of wood were from the fire Selma had photographed, it must have been nearby. He doubted the robed figures in her pictures would have carried charred logs far—especially if they’d still been hot, even smoldering. Hell, most likely they would simply have kicked the smoking coals around and called it good.

So everything must have happened here. Right here.

Looking around, he asked himself where he would make a fire if he were looking to start one in this vicinity and noticed that the trees here seemed to form a natural circle. The middle, about five yards to his right, would make a good spot.

He walked over and looked at the ground in search of any sign of a fire, certain he was in the right place but not seeing anything to prove it. And then he stopped and shivered. Damn, the temperature seemed to be dropping all of a sudden. He’d expected it to get warmer as the morning progressed.

He flipped up the collar of his denim coat, looking up as he did, and found himself staring at the trunk of a white birch tree dead ahead of him. It had been smeared or splashed with red paint. In fact, so had the one beside it.

Frowning, he turned in a slow circle and realized that all of the trees surrounding him had been daubed with red. A near-perfect circle of red-stained birch trunks.

And the red, he knew with sudden perfect clarity, was not from paint at all.

* * *

Lena headed downstairs to put on the coffee and found her mom in the kitchen making her famous blueberry waffles. Well, famous to the two of them, anyway. And to Ryan. Lena had spoiled him with her mother’s recipe before they’d split up.

“Ahh, perfect timing,” Selma said, smiling at her daughter. “Admit it, you smelled them all the way upstairs.”

“I did. Ryan better get his butt out of bed soon or he’ll miss out.”

“Oh, he’s up. I just saw him outside, sticking something in his shiny new truck. Did you notice he bought the one with the backseat?”

“Why would I notice something like that?”

Her mother gave her that “we both know better” look, and Lena didn’t argue. Of course she had noticed. He was thinking about the baby.

It also occurred to her that she was dying of curiosity to know what he had just been putting in that truck. And yet snooping on him had only led to a horrible misconception earlier. She wasn’t going to go against her own values and repeat the mistake. If she kept looking for trouble, she would surely find it. Right?

He came in through the front door with an armload of firewood, stomped the mud and snow off his boots, and deposited the logs in the rack near the fireplace. A good thing, too, as the fire had burned down to embers overnight.

“It would have taken me four trips to bring in that much,” Lena called.

“Would’ve taken me five,” her mother said. “You’re getting extra blueberries in your waffles this morning, Ryan.” She reached into the bowl for a handful and sprinkled them into the already blue-stained batter, moving her hand in a clockwise circle and saying, “You fit right in our little nest. I hope you’ll stay. I think it’s best.”

“Mother!”

Selma sent Lena an innocent look and shrugged. Poor Ryan was just frowning at them, clueless that Selma had just tossed a little magic his way.

Ryan went back out for more firewood, and Lena joined her mother at the counter, wiggled her fingers over the waffle iron. “Free will to all and harm to none—”

“And as I will, it shall be done,” Selma put in quickly. Then she slanted Lena a look. “Don’t try to out-witch your mother, dear.”

Lena grinned at her. “Things between us are nowhere near where you think they are yet.”

“I love that you said ‘yet.’” Her mother shrugged. “They’ll get there. It’s meant to be. He’s your prince, after all.”

“I hope so. But he’s still very...what’s the word? Practical. Just...too logical, you know?”

“Hmm. Maybe protecting himself?”

“I think so. And speaking of protecting, we need to do a little house cleansing while he’s working on the nursery today.”

Selma frowned as if perplexed. “A cleansing? Why?”

“I don’t think our ghost is a ghost. I’m starting to feel...very uneasy about it. It spoke to me—twice now. Both times to tell me that Ryan is not to be trusted.”

Selma’s frown became a look of surprise. “Why would it tell you that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you think it might be right?”

Lena shook her head, surprising herself by her own certainty. “I don’t think so. I mean, what does
your
gut tell you about Ryan, Mom?”

“I like him. I’ve always liked him. I think he’ll make a great father. And I think he’s wounded, way down deep, and doesn’t want to address it. I get the feeling it’s festered and healed over, and it needs to be lanced to let the poison out.”

“Me too. That’s exactly the sense I’m getting. That’s why he’s so...careful.”

Selma took the first two perfect waffles and dropped them onto a waiting plate. “So if we’re right about him, then it’s our ghost who’s lying.” She tipped her head to one side. “Maybe he’s jealous. I mean, we pick him up as a masculine entity, right? He’s had us all to himself up to now. Maybe it’s just a guy thing. Territorial or something.”

“Well, even if that’s what it is, it’s negative, and if it escalates it could be dangerous. I think it’s time to send him packing to wherever he belongs. Agreed?”

Her mother nodded. “I’ve got some asafetida tucked away for just such an occasion.”

“And some air-freshener for afterward, I hope.”

“Ryan’s back with more wood. Get the door for him, hon.”

Lena headed to the doorway but caught her mother muttering something as she dusted Ryan’s waffles in powdered sugar.
“Mom,”
she warned.

Selma glanced at Lena over her shoulder and winked.

* * *

Ryan had learned a lot last night while perusing those books. More, in fact, than he’d ever needed to know about the lesser known uses of daggers. Or athames, as the witchy types called them. He had already known that they were phallic symbols. But he’d discovered that they were associated with the fertilizing force of the masculine aspect of the divine. A God-Rod, so to speak. In magic, they were used to control and direct energy, and one was never supposed to cut anything physical with one’s ritual blade.

None of which told him how to wield his. But practice, he thought, would make perfect.

He spent the day painting the nursery and by mid-afternoon had finished. The ceiling and every bit of wood trim were all done in a soft eggshell color. White would have been too harsh. The walls were two-tone, a pastel sea-foam green from floor to waist height, and a slightly lighter-than-sunshine yellow from there up. The paint needed to dry before he could move on to the small hand-stenciled border and the giant animals. He had it all planned out in his mind.

It was kind of surprising to him how much pleasure he was taking in this project. Probably because it was for his own child.

His own child. Imagine that.

Someone knocked on the nursery door. Frowning, he went to it and, standing close, picked up a rancid scent. “Who is it?”

“It’s me,” Lena said. “I need to come in.”

“You can’t. It’ll ruin the surprise. God, what is that smell?”

“Just open the door a crack. I promise I won’t peek. Okay?”

“All right.” He looked behind him and could have sworn he saw a shadow move in the corner, but then it was gone. So he cracked the door, peeked through and saw smoke, then drew back in disgust. “God, that’s rank!”

“That’s the idea.” She thrust an oblong shell, filled with smoldering weeds, through the door at him. “Take it.”

He took it, and she handed him a feather, too.

“What the hell
is
this?”

“Asafetida.”

“Smells like the ass of something-dead-it-a.”

“That’s the idea. It’s also known as Devil’s Dung. I want you to walk around the baby’s room wafting the smoke with the feather and visualizing anything negative being driven out. Understand?”

“As fast as humanly possible. Got it.” He turned.

“The other way.”

“What?”

She pointed. “Widdershins. Counterclockwise.”

“Naturally.” He pushed the door shut with his foot and, grimacing, waved the smoke with the feather. “Ghosty, ghosty, go away, don’t come back another day. Get your ass away before she finds some stuff that stinks much more!”

He heard her giggle from outside the door, completed his lap around the room and shoved the shell out at her.

She poked a small, pretty bottle through next. “Now draw an equal-armed cross—like a plus sign—on every window, and on every electrical outlet and register.”

“What is this, and what’s it do?” he asked.

“Holy water. Keeps what we just booted out from coming back in.”

“Ah. Gotcha.” He closed the door and dampened his finger in the water from the bottle, drawing the cross everywhere she’d told him to. “Why do I feel like I should be speaking Latin?” he called.

She laughed again. He felt warm at the sound and then wondered why that warmth was suddenly chased away by an icy chill. As if someone had just opened the door of a giant walk-in meat locker right behind him.

He stopped what he was doing and frowned, turning in a slow circle, but of course nothing was there. Still...

He went back to the door, opened it just enough to squeeze out, bottle and all, then pulled it closed behind him. The stench wasn’t left behind, though. It permeated the entire house.

“God, what have you two crazy women
done
to this place?”

Lena shrugged. “I thought it was time we got rid of our ghost. He was starting to make us feel uncomfortable.” She rubbed her arms and looked nervously around. “Frankly, I was expecting a little resistance from him, but I guess he wasn’t all that strong.”

“Well, the smell certainly is. How soon can we air the place out?”

“After a few hours.” She walked with him down the stairs. Selma was going around “sealing” the windows and doors just as Ryan had done in the nursery. Lena set the bottle of water on the coffee table, then tamped out the foul-smelling weed before sinking onto the sofa.

For a second, Ryan just stayed where he was, standing in the doorway, staring at her. All that wild red hair fell around her shoulders in curls he’d always loved. He remembered them falling onto his chest at night, tickling his face during sex. They’d always been so silky-soft beneath his palms. And they’d always smelled of incense and exotic smokiness. Magic. Her hair smelled like magic.

Well, most of the time. He figured right now it probably smelled like Devil’s Dung.

She looked up, caught him staring, smiled. “What?”

“Let’s go out for dinner,” he said, finally shaking himself free of the spell just looking at her could cast. “Let’s get out of this house for the rest of the night so the stinky smoke can do its work, and when we get back we can open all the windows for a while and air it out. Okay?”

He saw her delight at the idea right there in her face, but only briefly. She chewed her lip a second later. “I don’t know if I want to leave Mom when there’s so much going on.”

“Don’t be silly,” Selma said. She was capping her bottle, apparently finished. “Go on, have fun. I can probably have the place smelling like home again by the time you return.”

“Come with us, Selma,” Ryan told her. “I have a brand-new truck neither of you has even ridden in yet. And you know what? On the way back from town I noticed this restaurant right on the lakeshore. It looked like the kind of place you’d love.”

“I know the one you mean.” Lena looked at her mother. “The Southern Cross. Remember?”

“Mmm, nice place.”

Lena frowned. “It’s a bit of a drive, though.”

“You have a pressing appointment?” Ryan asked.

She smiled down at her bulging belly. “Not for a few more weeks.” Then she nodded. “What do you say, Mom?”

“I say I’m perfectly fine staying home by myself. My goodness, I don’t need a babysitter.”

“Yeah, but Mom—”

“I want you two to go. Have a beautiful dinner and take your time. I’m going to take a long, hot bath full of scented bath oils, and by the time I’m finished, it’ll be time to open the windows.”

Lena looked at Ryan, and he frowned. He didn’t like leaving Selma, either, especially given her recent health scare.

“Look, Bahru is just a few steps away if I need him,” Selma said. Then she blinked as if puzzled by her own words, shook herself and went on. “But I
won’t
need him. Plus the sheriff’s two miles away and Doc Cartwright’s even closer. If you don’t go, it’ll hurt my feelings.”

“We really need to get a phone or something hooked up out in Bahru’s cottage,” Lena said, eyeing her mother and looking hesitant.

“I can flash the outdoor light to get his attention if anything goes wrong. But it won’t. Lena, I swear, I have been fine on my own for years now. I had one bad night. A very
oddly
bad night, but still, I promise you, I’m fine.”

Lena nodded slowly. “All right. I guess you’re on. Let me just change into something less...fragrant.”

“Fantastic, I’ll warm up the truck,” Ryan said.

He was going to call Sheriff Larry while he was alone, tell him what he’d found in those woods and ask him to check in on Selma tonight. He didn’t think telling Lena he’d found blood—probably all that missing calf blood—on her property would be a very good idea. Stress was bad for the baby, and her knowing wouldn’t do her any good, anyway. She needed less to worry about, not more.

Damn, but he was going to wine and dine that woman tonight, he decided. Okay, not literally—she couldn’t have wine. But still, he needed to remind her how good it had been between them once. It made sense for them to be together as a couple, to raise their baby together as parents, so she—or
he,
he reminded himself—could have the childhood she deserved.

He was going to talk to her about that tonight. And she would hear him. He knew she would. It was all going to be okay.