Spellcrossed (38 page)

“Talk to me, damn it!”

I had no breath to talk and no desire to stop, although my body was drenched with sweat and my legs had begun to ache. As I mounted the final set of steps, a blur of movement to my right startled me. The next thing I knew Rowan was blocking my path.

It seemed childish to dodge around him. Worse, it was useless. He’d just pull his “faster than a speeding bullet” act to thwart me again.

He had the good sense not to touch me with either his hands or his power. I didn’t want to be touched by anything Fae at that moment. Janet, Alex, Rowan…all of them sensing every emotion, battering at my defenses. That was why I had left. With all their fucking magical power, you’d think they would understand that and leave me alone.

“Talk to me. Please.”

“I can’t do this, Rowan. Not right now.”

I started walking. Rowan kept pace beside me.

“The evening of my panic attack. You said we had to be able to talk. To deal with things together.”

“I also said we had to be honest.”

He checked suddenly, but caught up with me a few paces later.

“I wanted to tell you the truth. But you were so happy during rehearsals for
Into the Woods
. I just couldn’t bring myself to hurt you.”

“I know.”

Again he checked and hurried to catch up with me.

“But…I don’t understand…”

“Glass houses, Rowan.”

“What?”

“I’ve been lying to my mother all summer. Trying to protect her. Why should I be angry at you for doing the same thing?”

“But—”

“I’m angry at myself. For being stupid enough to believe he could change.”

“Now that he knows you’re his daughter—”

“He might stay out of some sense of obligation, but he’ll always want Faerie more than me.”

My voice cracked and I pressed my lips together. I felt more than saw Rowan’s hand come up, but I just quickened my pace.

The parking lot was an oasis of fluorescent light. Rowan must have thought I was going to the apartment because he had to veer sharply to follow me to the car.
As I fumbled for my keys, he slapped his palm against the window.

“Where are you going?”

“I don’t know.”

The hotel was booked. I didn’t want to wake Hal. Besides, then I’d have to contend with Lee’s Faedar.

“You shouldn’t be driving when you’re upset.”

“I’m fine.”

“Please. Let’s go up to the apartment and—”

“I don’t want to go to the apartment!”

“You can’t just drive around all night.”

“Maybe I’ll crash in the lobby of the Bough. It doesn’t matter! I just need to be alone.”

“I’ll take Jack to the cottage. You’ll have the apartment to yourself.”

“I need to get away, Rowan. From everything and everyone that reminds me of Faerie.”

His hand slipped from the glass. His shocked expression shattered what was left of my self-control.

I blurted out an apology, flung open the car door, and slid inside.

“Are you coming back?”

His voice sounded hollow, as if every emotion had been drained.

“I’ll be here for load-in.”

It took three tries before I managed to shove the key into the ignition. I slammed the door and backed out so quickly that the car skidded on the gravel.

As I neared the top of the lane, I glanced into the rearview mirror. Rowan was still standing in the parking lot.

His small, lonely figure blurred. I gripped the steering wheel hard and hit the accelerator.

I made it about half a mile before I pulled over and indulged in the release of tears. Then I blew my nose and kept going.

I drove aimlessly, grateful for the dark, winding roads that forced me to concentrate on my driving. But I kept seeing Rowan’s forlorn figure. I was angry with myself for hurting him, angrier still that his persistence had driven me to it—and terrified to realize that I couldn’t bear to be near him.

Had Mom felt like that when she kicked Jack out? Or had love leached away long before that?

Thank God, I had never told her that Jack had returned. Just imagining what I might have put her through brought on another fit of the shakes. Better to envision her sleeping peacefully beside Chris, untroubled by the ghosts of our past. Ghosts had no place in this world. And Jack Sinclair had no place in our lives.

The lyrics of “No More” kept running through my head, an ironic counterpoint to my turbulent thoughts. No more giants, the Baker pleaded. No more witches or curses or lies. But even he realized that he couldn’t ignore them, any more than he could forget the false hopes, the reverses, the good-byes…

Damn Stephen Sondheim. Why did he have to write my fucking life into a musical?

I turned on the radio, hoping to drown out the lyrics, but the brief bursts of music vanished as soon as the car descended a hill.

At some point, I realized I was hopelessly lost. If my car had a GPS, I might have been able to punch in the name of one of the rare streets I passed. Lacking that, I just kept driving until I stumbled onto Route 9. Unsure of my bearings, I turned west. Within a few miles, I realized I was heading toward Bennington rather than Dale.

I wished I could keep driving. I wished I could crawl back into my protective bubble.

No more feelings. No more questions. Just running away. Escaping the ties that bind.

That was the Mysterious Man’s solution. And Jack’s.

Like father, like daughter.

But the Mysterious Man warned the Baker about the dangers of wandering blind. Which was exactly what I’d been doing for the last hour.

I could never outdistance my thoughts or escape the ties that bound me to the Crossroads. With every mile that separated me from the theatre, I became more conscious of them: the concern of my staff, the bewilderment of my father, and most of all, the anguish of the man who loved me.

The man I still loved. But my blithe confidence that we could surmount every obstacle had been shaken.

No matter how human he acted, Rowan was innately different. He had powers I would never understand, weaknesses he could never conquer. If I couldn’t accept that, I should break it off now.

But would I be able to do that? Even if I wanted to? Maybe I was ensnared by Fae glamour as surely as my father. Or maybe that was simply the nature of love. Another sort of trap—and just as dangerous.

“Give him a chance, Mom.”

“To do what? Break your heart a second time?”

“That won’t happen.”

“You know who you sound like? Me. Thirty years ago.”

Was I repeating her mistake—trying to make Rowan over into something he wasn’t, something he could never be?

Always more questions. Just different kinds.

But one thing I did know. Like it or not, I
was
Magpie, the child pounding her fists on the window as her father walked out of her life. And Maggie Sinclair, the girl who watched her identity disappear just as her father had. Without those girls, Maggie Graham would never have made that fateful journey to the Crossroads.

So many spells. So many ties. Blood and friendship. Duty and obligation. Commitment and love. How do you break free without dooming yourself to loneliness? Even
then, the ghosts are always there, lurking in the shadows of memory. Sooner or later, you have to face them.

Rowan had taught me that.

I waited for a truck to roar past, then made a quick U-turn. Running again, but this time, back to the family I had been given and the family I had chosen.

Although I was driving faster, the odometer seemed to spin more slowly. By the time I coasted into Dale, my eyes felt like they were lubricated with sand. Main Street was deserted at this hour, but the streetlamps were so bright after the dark road that they made me squint.

I slowed as I approached the Golden Bough. It was tempting to hide out there, to snatch a few hours of sleep on one of the sofas in the lobby. But there were too many people back at the theatre who were waiting and worrying about me.

I was already gliding past the hotel when I saw the figure sitting on the porch steps. I tramped on the brake, and the Civic shuddered to a halt.

It seemed to take an hour to cross the street, yet my breath came so fast, I felt like I was running. All the while, Rowan sat there like a statue. Only when I reached the porch did I notice the unceasing tremor rippling through his shirt.

I imagined him hesitating in the parking lot. Running up the lane. Hesitating again as he reached the road before racing through the darkness to town—the town he only knew secondhand from the stories of others. Had he paused for a moment to take in his first view of Dale? Or simply hurried down Main Street, searching for the Golden Bough?

And then the long, lonely vigil, watching and waiting and hoping.

His breath caught as I raised my hand, then leaked out in a strangled sigh when my fingertips touched his cheek.

I drew his head to my breast. As he flung his arms around my waist, his power burst free, flooding my senses
with tremulous relief, the ache of sorrow, and a stab of fear so sharp that I winced.

We had embraced like this the evening I had confronted him at the theatre, daring him to love me. Now, we clung to each other like survivors of a shipwreck, both aware of how close we had come to foundering.

I pressed my lips to his hair and breathed in his scent. Not the musky-sweet aroma of desire, but the bitter tang of fear and despair.

“Are you coming back?” he had asked. Stupidly, I had told him I would return for load-in. But he had known I would never walk out on the show. He had been asking if I was walking out on him.

Maybe it would always be like this for us—this pulling away and coming together. Maybe that was inevitable between human and faery. But I had to believe that we could bridge our differences, that love and trust and time would bind us together more strongly.

His silk shirt was damp with perspiration. I stroked his back, his shoulders, the knotted muscles in his neck, my hands silently assuring him of my love, my commitment. But silence had proven to be our enemy and caused too many misunderstandings. I needed to speak the words—as much for me as for him.

“I’m here, Rowan. I can’t promise I’ll never bolt again, but I will always come back.”

The fear receded, but his sorrow whispered through me. And something else that made no sense to me.

Wonder.

When he raised his head, I saw only his eyes. So impossibly green. So clearly Fae. Only when his fingertips touched his cheek did I notice the damp track running down it, glistening in the light of the porch lantern.

“You made me weep,” he whispered.

“Oh, Rowan. I’m so sorry.”

“No. You don’t understand. The Fae can’t weep.”

His gaze searched my face as if I were a stranger.

I brushed my fingertips against his cheek and drew back, startled. His tears felt…thick. Like the glycerin used in films to simulate real tears.

He seized my hand and brought it to his mouth. His lips closed around my middle finger, and he sucked it gently. Then he raised his index finger to my mouth.

Salty, yes. But also something sweet. Like honey.

“Am I becoming…human?”

I shook my head helplessly. “Maybe the Fae don’t weep because nothing ever touches them deeply enough. But now that you’ve learned to love…”

“I’ve learned the fear of losing it.”

The fear that had haunted his dreams this summer. And made him weep tonight.

“I just wish I hadn’t been the one to teach you that.”

“Who else could?”

I nodded, shouldering the burden of my guilt and the risks of loving him. Never again would I believe we could sail over every hurdle as easily as we’d conquered his panic attacks. The knowledge left me forlorn, as if we had lost something nearly as precious as what we had found tonight.

I took his hand and led him to the car, only to draw up short when I realized he couldn’t possibly ride in it.

“I’ll park behind the hotel. And we’ll walk home.”

His fingers tightened on mine. “We’ll drive.”

Tears rose in my eyes. I blinked them away and shook my head.

“We’ll drive,” he repeated.

I rolled down all the windows and turned the vents on high. Then I leaned over and opened his door. As soon as he slid inside and closed the door, I tramped on the accelerator and sped back to the theatre.

When I reached the lane, I slowed just enough to avoid ripping out the undercarriage of the Civic. Even before I stopped the car, he flung open the door and stumbled outside. I hurried around the car to find him
gulping great lungfuls of air. But he didn’t get sick. He just nodded gravely, as if he’d proved something to himself—and to me.

As I glanced up at the apartment, he said, “Jack’s at the house. We didn’t think he should be alone.”

I thought longingly of Rowan’s bed, then resolutely turned toward the house.

“You don’t have to see him tonight.”

“I’m not going there to see him. Janet will be waiting up. And Alex.”

“How did you know Alex was—?”

“His car’s still in the lot.”

We walked up the hill hand in hand. The lights were still on in the house, but it was quiet now. As we neared the porch, the screen door swung open, and Janet and Alex walked outside. He was still in his tuxedo, although he’d removed his tie and jacket. Janet had donned her old terry cloth robe and she held my carryall in her hand.