A Nomadic Witch (A Modern Witch Series: Book 4) Read Free Page B

scored—his aunt’s cheeks glowed pink.  “She was never one to ignore magic, whatever its outward countenance.”
    All Irish common sense went out the window when magic was involved.  Marcus scowled and pulled out some carrot sticks—normally they were pretty effective witch repellant.
    Moira only raised an eyebrow.  “Out of cookies, are you?”
    No, but he needed the rest of his stash to chase away small visitors.  Most happily departed with a cookie in hand.  “Carrots are good for you.  They improve your eyesight.”
    “There’s nothing wrong with my eyes, Marcus Grimald Buchanan.” 
    Marcus knew that tone.  It was generally followed by long hours of cauldron scrubbing.  There wasn’t a witch in Fisher’s Cove dumb enough to argue with that voice.
    His aunt stared him down, Irish warrior woman in full throttle.  “I’ve been reading people for far longer than you’ve been ignoring them.  Do you think I’d have carried you a message from some charlatan?”
    It had never come up.  He stayed silent.  Talking only gave people reason to stay.
    Her eyes saddened, and she reached out to touch his cheek.  “I’ve not have caused you that kind of pain, my dear sweet boy.  Not ever.”
    Dammit.  Moira in high dudgeon he could perhaps repel.  The aunt who had rocked him for hours, saying nothing, for days after Evan had died?
    Even he wasn’t that crusty.
    He pulled her hand down from his cheek, giving it a quick squeeze before locking down his armor.  “What was the message?”
    “There’s a baby coming.  A wee girl by the name of Morgan.”  Not by an eyelash did Moira betray her unease, but he could feel it stirring in her mind.  “She’s to be yours.”
    Marcus stared.  And then felt the most unusual sensation.  Laughter, bubbling all the way up from his toes.  “Someone escaped from Las Vegas to tell you I’m going to be a father?”  Clearly an object lesson on trusting his first instincts—nothing that glittery could possibly be real.  “I can assure you, there are no babies out there with Marcus Buchanan genes.”  He wasn’t entirely a hermit, but his recent life in Fisher’s Cove hadn’t exactly lent itself to clandestine encounters.
    He got up to deal with the whistling kettle, wishing the whole day to hell.  “Any other messages from beyond?”
    “The dead don’t always speak clearly.”  Moira, not taking the hint, reached into the cupboard for his cookie tin.  “And there was one more bit about a missing soldier and church steps.”
    The words hammered into his lungs.  Marcus bent over, clutching the counter, vaguely aware that the dropped kettle had smashed a teacup to smithereens.  Pink and green shards floated in front of his eyes, a terrifying gray haze sliding in to enfold his brain.  The mists had come for Evan.  Now they were coming for him.
    And the part of him that would have been glad to go vanished in an onslaught of fear.
    ~ ~ ~
    He was coming round.  Sophie eased out of her healing trance slightly—Marcus was a strong mind witch, and he wouldn’t appreciate the invasion once he was conscious enough to feel it.
    She looked over at six-year-old Lizzie, competently handling healer’s assistant duties.  “Nice job on the monitoring there, sweetheart.  What did you notice?” All moments were teaching ones, even when a perfectly healthy adult had collapsed while drinking tea with Aunt Moira.
    Lizzie frowned.  “It’s like Gran, but different.”
    That was interesting.  Lizzie had served countless hours as nursemaid when Moira was recovering from her stroke.  “What do you mean?  Different how?”  One of the healer trainee’s more difficult tasks was learning to put words to things vaguely felt in scans.
    Lizzie’s face screwed up in thought.  “Well, the hurt is in his head, just like Gran’s, but there’s nothing really there.  It doesn’t start anywhere—it’s just kind of all over.  With Gran, we healed the hurt