Captivated (7 page)

“Sounds like you’re smitten.”

If she hadn’t just swallowed, she would have choked. “Don’t be insulting. Just because I find him interesting and attractive doesn’t mean I’m—as you so pitifully put it—smitten.”

She was sulking, Sebastian noted, pleased. It was always a good sign. The closer Morgana got to anger, the easier it was to slide information out of her. “So, have you looked?”

“Of course I looked,” she shot back. “Merely as a precaution.”

“You looked because you were nervous.”

“Nervous? Don’t be ridiculous.” But she began to drum her fingers on the table. “He’s just a man.”

“And you, despite your gifts, are a woman. Shall I tell you what happens when men and women get together?”

She curled her fingers into fists to keep from doing something drastic. “I know the facts of life, thank you. If I do take him as a lover, it’s my business. And perhaps my pleasure.”

Happy that she’d lost interest in the ice cream, Sebastian nodded as he ate. “Trouble is, there’s always a risk of falling in love with a lover. Tread carefully, Morgana.”

“There’s a difference between love and lust,” she replied primly. From his spot under the table, Pan lifted his head and gave a soft woof.

“Speaking of which . . .”

Eyes full of warning, Morgana rose. “Behave yourself, Sebastian. I mean it.”

“Don’t worry about me. Go answer the door.” The bell rang a heartbeat later. Chuckling to himself, Sebastian watched her stalk off.

Damn it, Morgana thought when she’d opened the front door. He looked so cute. His hair was tumbled by the wind. He carried a battered knapsack over one shoulder and had a hole in the knee of his jeans.

“Hi. I guess I’m a little early.”

“It’s all right. Come in and sit down. I just have a little . . . mess to clear up in the kitchen.”

“What a way to speak about your cousin.” Sebastian strolled down the hall, carrying the bowl of rapidly depleting ice cream. “Hello.” He gave Nash a friendly nod. “You must be Kirkland.”

Morgana narrowed her eyes but spoke pleasantly enough. “Nash, my cousin Sebastian. He was just leaving.”

“Oh, I can stay for a minute. I’ve enjoyed your work.”

“Thank you. Don’t I know you?” His gaze changed from mild to shrewd as he studied Sebastian. “The psychic, right?”

Sebastian’s lips quirked. “Guilty.”

“I’ve followed some of your cases. Even some hard-boiled cops give you the credit for the arrest of the Yuppie Killer up in Seattle. Maybe you could—”

“Sebastian hates to talk shop,” Morgana told him. There were dire threats in her eves when she turned them on her cousin. “Don’t you?”

“Actually—”

“I’m so glad you could stop by, darling.” A quick jolt of power passed as she snatched the bowl out of his hands. “Don’t be a stranger.”

He gave in, thinking it was still early enough to stop by Anastasia’s and discuss Morgana’s current situation in depth. “Take care, love.” He gave her a kiss, lingering over it until he felt Nash’s thoughts darken. “Blessed be.”

“Blessed be,” Morgana returned automatically, and all but shoved him out the door. “Now, if you’ll just give me a minute, we can get started.” She tossed her hair back, pleased when she heard him gun the engine of his motorcycle. “Would you like some tea?”

His brows were knitted, and his hands in his pockets. “I’d rather have coffee.” He trailed after her as she walked toward the kitchen. “What kind of a cousin is he?”

“Sebastian? Often an annoying one.”

“No, I mean . . .” In the kitchen he frowned at the remnants of their cozy dinner for two. “Is he a first cousin, or one of the three-times-removed sort?”

She set an old-fashioned iron kettle on the stove to heat, then started to load a very modern dishwasher. “Our fathers are brothers.” Catching Nash’s look of relief nearly had her chuckling. “In this life,” she couldn’t help but add.

“In this . . . Oh, sure.” He set his knapsack aside. “So you’re into reincarnation.”

“Into it?” Morgana repeated. “Well, that’s apt enough. In any case, my father, Sebastian’s and Ana’s were born in Ireland. They’re triplets.”

“No kidding?” He leaned a hip on the table as she opened a small tin. “That’s almost as good as being the
seventh son of a seventh son.”

With a shake of her head, she measured out herbs for tea. “Such things aren’t always necessary. They married three sisters,” she went on. “Triplets also.”

Nash rubbed Pan’s head when the dog leaned against his leg. “That’s great.”

“An unusual arrangement, some might say, but they recognized each other, and their destiny.” She glanced
back with a smile before she set a small pot of tea aside to steep. “They were fated to have only one child apiece—a disappointment to them in some ways. Between the six of them, they had a great deal of love, and would have showered it over quantities of children. But it wasn’t meant.”

She added a pot of coffee to a silver tray where she’d arranged delicate china cups along with a creamer and sugar bowl, both in the shape of grinning skulls.

“I’ll carry it in,” Nash told her. As he hefted the tray, he glanced down. “Heirlooms?”

“Novelty shop. I thought they’d amuse you.”

She led the way into the drawing room, where Luna was curled in the center of the sofa. Morgana chose the cushion beside her and gestured for Nash to set the tray on the table.

“Cream and sugar?” she asked.

“Both, thanks.” Watching her use the grim containers, he was amused. “I bet you’re a stitch around Halloween.”

She offered him a cup. “Children come for miles to be treated by the witch, or try to trick her.” And her fondness for children had her postponing her own All Hallows’ Eve celebration every year until the last goody bag had been filled. “I think some of them are disappointed that I don’t wear a pointed hat and ride out on my broomstick.” The silver band on her finger winked in the lamplight as she poured a delicate amber tea brewed from jasmine flowers.

“Most people have one of two views on witches. It’s either the hooked-nosed crone passing out poisoned apples, or the glittering spirit with a star-shaped wand telling you there’s no place like home.”

“I’m afraid I don’t fit either category.”

“Exactly why you’re what I need.” After setting his cup aside, he dug in his knapsack. “Okay?” he asked, setting his tape recorder on the table.

“Sure.”

He punched the record button, then dug again. “I spent the day slogging through books—the library, bookstores.” He offered her a slim soft-cover volume. “What do you think about this?”

One brow arched, Morgana studied the title. “
Fame, Fortune and Romance: Candle Rituals for Every Need
.” She dropped the book into his lap smartly enough to make him wince. “I hope you didn’t pay much for it.”

“Six-ninety-five, and it comes off my taxes. You don’t go in for this sort of thing, then?”

Patience, she told herself, slipping off her shoes and curling up her legs. The little red skirt she wore slid up to midthigh. “Lighting candles and reciting clever little chants. Do you really believe that any layman can perform magic by reading a book?”

“You gotta learn somewhere.”

Snarling, she snatched it up again, flipped it open. “To arouse jealousy,” she read, disgusted. “To win the love of a woman. To obtain money.” She slapped it down again. “Think about this, Nash, and be grateful it doesn’t work for everyone. You’re a little strapped for cash, bills are piling up. You’d really like to have that new car, but the credit’s exhausted. So, light a few candles, make a wish—maybe dance naked for effect. Abracadabra.” She spread her hands. “You find yourself getting a check for ten thousand. Only problem is, your beloved grandmother had to die to leave it to you.”

“Okay, so you’ve got to be careful how you phrase your charm.”

“Follow me here,” she said with a toss of her head. “Actions have consequences. You wish your husband were more romantic. Shazam, he’s suddenly a regular Don Juan—with every woman in town. But you’ll be noble, and cast a charm to stop a war. It works just fine, but as a result dozens of others spring up.” She let out a huff of breath. “Magic is not for the unprepared or the irresponsible. And it certainly can’t be learned out of some silly book.”

“Okay.” Impressed by her reasoning, he held up both hands. “I’m convinced. My point was that I could buy this in a bookstore for seven bucks. People are interested.”

“People have always been interested.” When she shifted, her hair slid down over her shoulder. “There have been times when their interest caused them to be hanged, burned, or drowned.” She sipped her tea. “We’re a bit more civilized today.”

“That’s the thing,” he agreed. “That’s why I want to write the story about now. Now, when we’ve got cell phones and microwave ovens, fax machines and voice mail. And people are still fascinated with magic. I can go a couple of ways. Use lunatics who sacrifice goats—”

“Not with my help.”

“Okay, I figured that. Anyway, that’s too easy . . . too, ah, ordinary. I’ve been thinking about leaning more toward the comic angle I used in
Rest in Peace
, maybe adding some romance. Not just sex.” Luna had crawled into his lap, and he was stroking her, running long fingers down her spine. “The idea is to focus on a woman, this gorgeous woman who happens to have a little extra. How does she deal with men, with a job, with . . . I don’t know, grocery shopping? She has to know other witches. What do they talk about? What do they do for laughs? When did you decide you were a witch?”

“Probably when I levitated out of my crib,” Morgana said mildly, and watched laughter form in his eyes.

“That’s just the kind of thing I want.” He settled back, and Luna draped herself over his legs like a lap rug. “Must’ve sent your mother into shock.”

“She was prepared for it.” When she shifted, her knees brushed his thigh. He didn’t figure there was anything magical about the quick flare of heat he felt. It was straight chemistry. “I told you I was a hereditary witch.”

“Right.” His tone had her taking a deep breath. “So, did it ever bother you? Thinking you were different?”

“
Knowing
I was different,” she corrected. “Of course. As a child, it was more difficult to control power. One often loses control through emotion—in the same way a woman might lose control of the intellect with certain men.”

He wanted to reach out and touch her hair, but he thought better of it. “Does it happen often? Losing control?”

She remembered the way it had felt the day before, with his mouth on hers. “Not as often as it did before I matured. I have a problem with temper, and I sometimes do things I regret, but there is something no responsible witch forgets. ‘An it harm none,’” she quoted. “Power must never be used to hurt.”

“So you’re a serious and responsible witch. And you cast love spells for your customers.”

Her chin shot out. “Certainly not.”

“You took those pictures—that woman’s niece, and the geometry heartthrob.”

He didn’t miss a trick, Morgana thought in disgust. “She didn’t give me much choice.” Because she was embarrassed, she set down her cup with a snap. “And just because I took the pictures doesn’t mean I’m about to sprinkle them both with moondust.”

“Is that how it works?”

“Yes, but—” She bit her tongue. “You’re making fun of me. Why do you ask questions when you’re not going to believe the answers?”

“I don’t have to believe them to be interested.” And he was—very. He found himself sliding a few inches closer. “So you didn’t do anything about the prom?”

“I didn’t say that.” She sulked a little while he gave in and toyed with her hair. “I simply removed a small barrier. Anything else would have been interference.”

“What barrier?” He didn’t have a clue as to what moondust might smell like, but he thought it would carry the same perfume as her hair.

“The girl’s desperately shy. I only gave her confidence a tiny boost. The rest is up to her.”

She had a beautiful neck, slim and graceful. He imagined what it would be like to nibble on it. For an hour or two. Business, he reminded himself. Stick to business.

“Is that how you work? Giving boosts?”

She turned her head and looked directly into his eyes. “It depends on the situation.”

“I’ve been reading a lot. Witches used to be considered the wise women of the villages. Making potions, charming, foretelling events, healing the sick.”

“My speciality isn’t healing, or seeing.”

“What is your speciality?”

“Magic.” Whether it was a matter of pride or annoyance, she wasn’t sure, but she sent thunder walking
across the sky.

Nash glanced toward the window. “Sounds like a storm coming.”

“Could be. Why don’t I answer some of your questions, so you can beat it home?”

Damn it, she wanted him gone. She knew what she’d seen in the scrying ball, and that with care, with skill, such things could sometimes be changed. But whatever was to be, she didn’t want things moving so fast.

And the way he was touching her, just those long fingertips to her hair, had little flicks of fear lighting in her gut.

That made her angry.

“No hurry,” he said easily, wondering whether, if he took a chance and kissed her again, he’d experience that same otherworldly sensation. “I don’t mind a little rain.”

“It’s going to pour,” she muttered to herself. She’d damn well see to it. “Some of your books might be helpful,” she began. “Giving you history and recorded facts, a general outline of rituals.” She poked a finger at the first one he’d given her. “Not this one. There are certain . . . trappings that are used in the Craft.”

“Graveyard dirt?”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, please.”

“Come on, Morgana, it’s a great visual.” He shifted, slipping a hand over hers, wanting her to see as he saw. “Exterior scene, night. Our beautiful heroine wading through the fog, crossing over the shadows of headstones. An owl screams. In the distance echoes the long, ululant howl of a dog. Close-up of that pale, perfect face, framed by a dark hood. She stops by a fresh grave and, chanting, sifts a handful of newly turned earth into her magic pouch. Thunder claps. Fade out.”