A Celtic Witch (A Modern Witch Series: Book 6) (17 page)

Nan blinked at the directness.  “My Cass?”

It was time to lay her cards on the table.  “She’s meant to be here.  You know that as well as I do.”

The nod came very slowly—but it came.  “Yes.  The rocks are strong here.”

Moira smiled.  “We’re a bit of a haven for those with earth magics.”  Even old bachelors unimpressed by their new powers. 

“Perhaps her heart readies after all.”  Nan nodded slowly.  “She will surpass me—I no longer know where her magic goes.”

“I’ve some experience with that.”  So many with such talent through the years, and each one so very dear to her heart.  “But that doesn’t mean a couple of old Irish grannies are entirely useless.”

Nan smiled, one crone to another.  “Old, I’ll give you.  But there’s power in these hands yet, and craftiness.”

Good.  They understood each other.  Moira stood up to collect the tea.  “Help me understand your Cass, then.”

Gnarled hands reached for the sturdy mug.  “She was born on the spring equinox, forty-five years ago, in the midst of a raging storm.”  Eyes glistened in memory.  “It was a difficult birth, but my daughter knew how to bring a child into the world.  And when that little bundle landed in my hands, I could see power shimmering on her like a halo.”

Something all the old midwives watched for—it had long been those babes who faced the most dangerous lives.  Not everyone loved a child with the ancestral powers.  “It runs in your family.”

“Aye.  We’re hereditary witches.  Kitchen witches and healers, mostly, with the occasional wee one who’s fey.”

Old words for mind magic.  Moira nodded, recalling her sense of Cassidy Farrell.  “It’s something different your granddaughter’s got.”

Nan’s brows flew up.  “And how would you be knowing that?”

Moira held out her palms  “As you said, there’s power in these hands yet.  I’ve a little earth magic and healing.  I’d know those in your Cass.”

Again, the slow nod, and a careful sipping of tea still piping hot.  Nan’s gaze gravitated to the garden once again.  “You’ve the magic of plants and growing things.”

“Yes.”  Comprehension dawned, and more old words.  “You’ve the rock magics.”  A healer of Mike’s ilk, then.

“You know of them.”

Moira smiled.  She probably knew more of them than almost any witch living.  “I’m a bit of a historian when I’m not out talking to my flowers.  The Cassidy clan has long been known for hearing the rocks.”  She considered her next words carefully.  “What lives in Cass is stronger than that, no?”  Mike had been awed by what he’d seen—and he wasn’t easily impressed.

Something akin to fear hit Nan’s eyes.  “I believe so.”

“She’s safe here.”  Moira spoke with the assurance of fifty Fisher’s Cove winters at her back.  “We’ve some experience with witches of unusual strength.”  That was an understatement—more power visited her kitchen every day looking for cookies than could be found in most of Ireland.

Nan looked down and spoke so softly her words were almost swallowed by the tea.  “I fear for what will be asked of her.”

Crones didn’t dodge hard truths.  “She’s had a long time to prepare.”

“Perhaps.”  The words were quiet now, with much history behind them.  “Time doesn’t always make a heart ready.”

Moira thought of Marcus, stuck for half a lifetime.  And Aervyn, asked to be so much, so quickly.  Elorie, who had waited with a ready heart for far too long.  And young Ginia, at ten, ready to face her destiny with more courage than most witches ever found in their lifetime.  She sipped her tea and met her visitor’s eyes.  “Aye.  But you raised her right.”  It was a grandmother’s highest compliment.

“It was a long time ago that she was mine.”

“I know.”  Moira looked out at her own garden, the place she’d nurtured for nigh on fifty years.  “But good roots matter.” 

-o0o-

Perhaps she wouldn’t be home.  Marcus gritted his teeth and made his way to Moira’s back door, fairly certain he wouldn’t be so lucky.

All he needed was a damned egg.  Which he would have plenty of if the cooks of Fisher’s Cove didn’t use his kitchen as the local grocery store.  Aaron had swiped his last half dozen less than an hour before Morgan had tugged sweetly on his pants and asked for “awfuls.”

Google had come up empty—waffles either required eggs or bizarre ingredients that he was very sure did not live in his cottage.

He reached the door, offered a quick prayer to the patron saint of bachelors, and entered as quietly as a man clad in rubber boots and winter wear could move.

And discovered not only was Moira home—but she had company.  Old Irish witch company.

The elderly woman with Cass’s eyes looked at him, bright interest shining from her mind.  “Well, hello there.  You must have come to save me from eating this whole plate of scones by myself.”

Marcus scowled—the scones were probably made from his blasted eggs.  “I’m not hungry, thank you.”  A lie, but an expedient one.  He focused in on his amused aunt.  “I need an egg, if you have one to spare.  Morgan wants waffles.”

“I’m all out, I’m afraid.”  She didn’t look at all sorry.  “But I’ve two dozen coming back with Aaron this afternoon.  You’re most welcome to as many of those as you need.”

He had his own coming back from the weekly village shopping trip, but that wouldn’t procure his daughter waffles for lunch.

“Perhaps a wee bit of porridge?”  The visitor smiled mildly.  “My little ones always liked a bowlful for lunch.”

Morgan hated oatmeal.  With a floor-heaping, wipe-it-in-her-hair vengeance.  “I’ll go raid Aaron’s cupboards for crumbs.”

“You won’t.”  Moira looked thoroughly horrified.  “I have a tureen of split pea soup in my fridge and I can whip up some biscuits in a jiffy.  Those don’t need any eggs at all.  Why don’t you go fetch my sweet girl and bring her back here?  We’ll share a bit of lunch together.”

He’d learn to cook his own biscuits in the fires of hell before he ate lunch with two meddling Irish grannies.  And given Morgan’s recent penchant for decorating her hair with the contents of her bowl, he wasn’t touching green soup, either.  “We’ll manage.  I’ve got Lizzie, Kevin, and Sean to feed as well.”  Maybe some of the evil macaroni and cheese powder in a box.  They all consumed it with unholy glee.

“There’s plenty of soup.”

“Sean and Kevin don’t eat runny green stuff.”  He had it on very good authority.

The stranger laughed.  “Neither did my Cassidy as a girl.  Avoided green food in all its forms.”

He didn’t want to think about Cass as a girl, a woman, or anywhere in between.  “She probably knew one too many healers who tried to slip things into her soup.”  He eyed his aunt as he spoke.  No telling what she’d done to her split peas before she turned them into food.

Her mind only chortled at him.  Which by no means meant she was innocent. 

“We’ve a duty to keep those we love well and strong.”  Moira smiled in communion with her visitor.

Damnation—two healers?  Marcus picked up the mental undercurrents.  “Those you love can darn well doctor their own immune systems.”

Two sets of eyes regarded him skeptically.

“Heal the sick.”  He wasn’t only speaking of coughs and colds now—the room reeked of meddling.  “Leave the well and happy alone.”

Smart Irish grannies didn’t miss conversational subtext.  Both of them graced him with impressive glares. 

He glared right back.  “She’s here to relax and eat some good food.  She’s got a right to do that without a couple of old witches deciding to help fate throw her a curveball.”  He ground to a halt, mystified by his sudden need to defend Cassidy Farrell.

The visitor from Ireland watched him for a moment, face as still as a world-class poker player.  And then she picked up her cup of tea, mind leaking satisfaction.  “Well, then.  It looks like fate might not need a hand at all.”

She smiled at him over the brim of her tea—and he knew the trouble he’d landed in was deep indeed.

-o0o-

Cass walked the beach and tried not to sulk.  Nan had wanted her daily communion with the rocks—and a granddaughter’s temper tantrum wasn’t allowed to get in the way.

She kicked a pebble or two.  Walk she would, but be damned if she was doing any communing.

“The rocks beat strongly here.  Perhaps they’re what called our ancestors to these shores.”  Wise eyes looked her direction.  “How has the road treated you this year, my girl?”

The same as always.  “It’s been good.  Too many shows, but I still get to play my little bars and pubs.”

“Good.”  Nan hopped nimbly over a big driftwood log.  “Those have always sustained you.”

Something no one else in the world really understood.  “The audiences are better there.”

“But finally not enough anymore, are they?”

It wasn’t really a question.  Cass frowned, not sure where the conversation was headed.

“Music has always been your one true love.”  Nan touched her hand to a cold gray boulder as they walked by.  “Until I got here, I thought it might stay that way.”

Something uncomfortable jiggled against Cass’s ribs.  “This is just a road trip.”

“Hardly, stubborn girl.  It’s the beginning of the rest of your life.”

The jiggling turned to earthquakes.  Cass eyed her grandmother sharply.  “And how would you know that?”

“The same way you know it, child.”  The words carried love—and chiding.  Nan was no pushover.  “The rocks talk to me, same as they talk to you.  And since you’re here, I assume you’ve done at least a passable job of listening.”

“I came for the food.”  It was truth, at least in part.  “I’m doing my annual walkabout—nothing more, nothing less.”

Nan’s grin was pure mischief.  “That’s the story you’re telling yourself, is it?  You always were a good one with a tall tale.”

A lecture she could have pushed away.  Nan’s insistent good humor had always been able to hold her face to the mirror.  “I’m not looking for a different life.”  The one she had suited her just fine.  Most days.

“Aren’t you?”  Green eyes met hers and didn’t look away.  “You grow weary, Cassie mine.  The rocks can feel it, and so can your heart.  When are you going to set down your sweet Rosie long enough to listen?”

The idea of putting down her fiddle literally closed Cass’s throat.  “I can’t give up my music.”

“Of course not.”  Nan sounded offended that the idea had been given air.  “Why on earth would you even consider such a thing?”

Cass threw her hands out over the waters and the rocky, empty beach.  “Who would I play for here?”

“Ah, child.”  A warm, strong hand touched her cheek.  “That’s a brave and good question to be asking, isn’t it now?”

Cass grasped the fingers.  And pleaded, mute, for the woman who had always been her biggest and best rock to make some sense of the shambles in her head.

  “Music is your heart and soul,
a leanbh mo chroí
.”  Nan walked them down the beach again, just as she’d done when Cass had been a small, boisterous child.  “You were smart enough to know that when you were a wee one.  I believe you’ll still dance with Rosie even when you’re an old crone like me.”

The stranglehold on Cass’s throat loosened.  “Then why am I here?”

The answer was a long time coming.  “Perhaps to see if your heart is ready to make space for other things to love.”

She’d spent twenty-six years believing that was impossible.

“Marcus looks a wee bit like your grandda.”

Cass wasn’t fooled by the apparent change in subject.  “It’s not about him.”

Nan only chuckled and stepped out of the way of a chasing tongue of water.  “He’s part of the mix, child, and I’d venture you knew it the moment you saw him.”

Grinding her teeth into dust was probably a dumb idea.  Cass tried anyhow.

“Don’t hide from the truth, child.  There’s more than one reason you’re here.”  Green eyes met hers and spoke from a lifetime of everyday courage.  “And you’ve the delight of seeking each of them out when they’re ready to be found.”

She didn’t want to look.  “I came here for some peace and quiet.”

Nan’s chuckles rolled out over the beach.  “Hardly.  But even if you had, that wouldn’t matter at all now.  You’re here, and that’s all that matters.  Let’s go on inside, and you can work on the first answer you’ve found.”

Cass frowned.  “And that would be?”

An eyebrow danced, amused.  “I assume I didn’t travel all the way over here with your old fiddle just to keep Rosie company.” 

Ah.  “No.  Samantha’s for Kevin.”

The sideways glance was oddly casual.  “Going to teach him, are you?”

Cass blinked—she hadn’t really thought that part through.  “Maybe you can show him a little.”  Nan had been the perfect teacher—funny, patient, and tough.

“I will not.”  The woman making her way over the rocks up to the road didn’t look remotely her age.  “I’d never deny you the pleasure of sharing what lives in you with another open and yearning heart.”

That described the look in Kevin’s eyes perfectly.  “Maybe he won’t like it.”

Green eyes met hers—and dared.  “You’re far more afraid that he will.” 

She hadn’t fooled Nan for a moment.  The squeezing in Cass’s throat was back.  “And if he does?”

The hands that squeezed hers were old and fragile—and still sang beautiful music.  “Then you will have found a new question, my lovely girl.  And being the brave soul that you are, you’ll have a need to answer it.”

Chapter 13