More Than Magic (6 page)

He didn’t think she was afraid of Nick Crowe. His charming-but-harmless act seemed to have worked pretty well. Hopefully she thought the worst she had to fear from good old Nick Crowe was a clumsy pass or two.

But she was definitely afraid of something. She had been trying, a bit awkwardly, to scare him away—or rather, to scare away poor Nick Crowe—with all her bear and boar and big cat stories. But why?

His gut told him she was hiding up here. Or hiding
something
up here. But his gut also told him it wasn’t a meth lab. However, there was the damn cell extender tower, and the GPS units as well.

Grimacing, he hoisted the duffel and swung the computer case onto his shoulder. He’d have to come back for the box of groceries and the cooler. When he picked up the basket again he caught a whiff of her scent and turned to see if she was standing there. No. He leaned over the basket and took a deep breath.

Damn. The sheets and towels smelled like her. Probably some soothing herbal scent the farm used. Getting to sleep was going to be really interesting.

Well, at least he might get to follow through on that clumsy pass just to get more information. Perhaps he might find out if that lovely red hair
was
as silky as it appeared.

The real bonus to all this was that, despite the best medical and chemical efforts to the contrary, Grace Woodruff had proven to him that
all
his equipment was still in working order, which was rather surprising. He smiled smugly, then frowned when the word “magic” popped into his head.

Chapter Three

“You can fix it, Dr. Grace. I know you can.”
Tink’s voice was strong and firm as she sat in the center of her hospital bed.
 

“You just believe in the magic.”

Tink’s pink kerchief fluttered upward as a gold leaf blew by. Grace blinked and found herself at the top of the mountain in the middle of their ancient ginseng bed with Tink standing before her, gossamer wings trembling on her back as the leaves of the ginseng danced around them in the wind.

“You can fix the mountain. Just listen to the song.”

Then the little fairy’s hand was in hers and Tink was leading her across the ginseng toward the rocks that bordered the east side of the bed. Grace saw that they were surrounded by darkness, boiling in the trees at the edge of the clearing and above their heads. Everything beyond the ginseng was blackened and burned. Only the ginseng remained, the shivering gold leaves pulsing with light in stark contrast to the darkness looming around them.

“Poison,”
came the whisper. She knew that if she looked it would be Granny Lily holding her hand now, leading her through the plants, because Tink stood in front of them on the rocks. Only it wasn’t Tink, with her bright pink kerchief and fragile golden wings. This child had red hair, swirling and blowing in the wind. Grace strained to see the little girl’s features, but they seemed to blur and run like watercolors.

“Blight,”
came the soft voice, behind her once more. She didn’t hesitate this time, turning to watch the shadow boiling into the clearing—a finger of blackness that reached out of the trees, snaking over her head into the rocks behind her, twisting like some strange vortex in the air.

Grace ran, desperate to stop the devastation—scrambling through the ginseng toward the rocks, not knowing what she would do when she reached them, but knowing she had to try. It spiraled up from the rocks like a black column of smoke, spreading a foul haze that almost blotted out the flashing gold of the plants.

“Bane.”
Then the smoky vortex spun sideways and Granny Lily stood next to it, her long red hair whipping around her shoulders, pointing at the base of the ugly column that whirled beside her. The darkness tugged at her hair and her dress, tendrils of black swirling around her and up into the air. It was as if she were on fire with no flames.

Grace could only stare at Lily’s pale face, whole and beautiful, surrounded by strands of copper dancing in the air. Unscarred.

“Ward!”

And then Lily morphed and melted and it was Tink standing there in her hospital gown with the smoke whirling around her.

Tink pointed down at her feet.
“You can fix it, Dr. Grace.”

Pops was crumpled there, pale and still, the dark wind whipping through his white hair, tugging him toward the edge of the rocks.

“Fix the mountain,”
Tink said calmly.

Grace reached toward Pops, but the vortex snaked toward her, engulfing her in foul smoke, filling her mouth with filth, pulling at her hair, dragging her away.

“Dr. Grace!”

Grace awoke with a start to the dark chill just before dawn, sweaty and cold, Tink’s scream still ringing in her ears. Her hands went to her face to wipe away the soot and she found her face damp, but that was all. She took a shaky breath that felt more like a sob, and heard Pooka whining anxiously next to her head.

She rubbed his ears and he lay back down on the rug beside her bed. “I’m all right, boy.”
 

But she wasn’t. She closed her eyes with a sigh. Oh, physically she was fine, but mentally… Mentally, she was starting to come undone. The dreams hadn’t been so persistent at first, only coming once in a while, and fading quickly out of her memory. Now it seemed that Granny Lily and her cohorts were screaming at her every night. And she wasn’t forgetting the details during the day, making it harder and harder to stay focused.

The dreams had taken on a note of urgency—as if warning her about something. But dreams were Daniel’s thing, not hers. And Daniel wouldn’t be here for weeks.

Short of coming up with some kind of dreamless sleep concoction there didn’t seem to be any way to stop them, although she hadn’t yet tried drinking herself into a nice temporary oblivion. But alcohol had never had the effect on her that others seemed to enjoy—at least not for long.
 

She just needed some decent sleep, or some normal dreams. Perhaps about someone with silvery gray eyes, an adorable dimple, and an easy laugh? Someone who liked dogs and had a voice that warmed up parts of her she thought she had tucked into cold storage. Someone with a bright smile that almost chased away the pain lurking in his eyes—the dark fever inside him that was burning him to ash.

The what?
Her eyes popped open.
Something about Mr. Crowe. Nick—

The bed bounced as Pooka put his front paws on the edge and licked her face.

“Oh, thanks. Now I’m thoroughly awake.” She rolled over to peer at the clock. 4:37 burned into her retina with green luminous numbers.

Grace swung out of bed and into her fuzzy slippers, tossing the comforter over the bed. “Who needs an alarm clock with you around?” Pooka ignored her, padding down the stairs ahead of her as she shrugged into her robe and followed him down.

“And no barking and waking up the neighbors.” She let Pooka out the front door and strained to see if there was any hint of light up at the Jewelweed. Not a glimmer. She suspected their new guest would sleep till noon, the way he had looked last night. “We want Mr. City Man to get plenty of sleep and stay out of our way.”

Filling the teakettle with water, she thought about the way Nick had looked standing there in the meadow. The lighting and the expression on his face—she had almost wished for a camera. It had been rather…breathtaking, that was the word. His face was all planes and angles, honed by fever and then sculpted by the cool light of the stars. She sighed, wondering what he would look like in a few months when he’d fully recovered.
 

She let Pooka back in, reminding herself that the pretty ones usually ended up being deficient in some way. Like Brian. But there was something different about Nick. And she did like that dimple of his. Of course, after she got a look at herself in the mirror last night she realized that dimple of his had likely kept showing up because she had been covered with dirt from the greenhouse, including a dark smudge next to her nose. He probably found her whole disheveled look hysterically at odds with her warnings about bears and wild boar.

Grace laughed, then she spied the brightly decorated bushel basket next to the refrigerator and remembered: today was Halloween. Samhain. Pops’s birthday. The laughter turned into something else. And before she could control it, she was sitting on the floor next to that silly basket crying. Great, gulping, stupid sobs.

Pooka didn’t whimper or lick her face, but simply lay down beside her and put his head on her leg. This he understood.

After a while, she was empty and calm.

“Happy birthday, Pops.”
 

Pooka licked her hand. “Oh, Pooka, you know you’re not supposed to be in here. But I won’t tell Ouida if you don’t.” She pulled herself to her feet, wiping her face on her sleeve and pouring herself a tall mug of tea as the dog went to his usual post just outside the kitchen.

“So, out to Pops’s cathedral for lunch today, boy.” She set Pooka’s food in front of him. “Maybe Granny Lily will show up and explain herself.”

Little chance of that. But going out to check on the ginseng bed one last time before winter had been a ritual for Pops on his birthday and she aimed to keep it for him. Perhaps that was why she had dreamed about it.

“And tonight the soul cakes need to go out by the gate before dusk.”

Pooka listened attentively.

She pulled a banana off the bunch on the counter and retrieved a loaf of bran bread from the bread bin, but as she went to get the almond butter from the fridge, a photo hanging on the reminder board next to it caught her eye—a certain dark-haired pixie grinning happily and hugging a short blonde theme park actress in a startling green costume with iridescent wings. She didn’t have to flip it over to remember the childish scrawl on the back:
“I met the real Tink. Now I want to come meet your mountain.”

The mountain that Grace was supposed to be able to fix somehow, according to Tink and Granny Lily.

Only she had no idea what was wrong with it in the first place.

“This is just wrong, Dr. Woodruff.” Nick lowered his binoculars and rubbed his eyes. “You don’t get up when I’m attempting to crawl into bed. Especially not looking that good.”

The fuzzy bedroom slippers somewhat ruined the whole effect. And the night shirt that proclaimed “Scientists Do It With Reproducible Results” was a bit too long and baggy, but still, spectacular legs. And, freed of those clips, her hair was longer than he had guessed. He shook his head, amazed that he could manage such enthusiasm on zero sleep.

Of course, he had only managed a glimpse of her heading down the stairs before she disappeared, but they
were
high-powered binoculars, so he was pretty certain about the legs—and the slogan on the shirt.

A low throb behind his eyes reminded him to down some aspirin with the protein shake he had managed to concoct. It tasted even worse than usual. He washed it down with coffee, which didn’t taste much better. No doubt it was his conscience poking him for such enthusiastic, if somewhat necessary, voyeurism. Likely his hostess didn’t expect her guests to be spying on her. But it was also likely she didn’t expect anyone to stay up until the wee hours investigating her life history either.

Grace Elizabeth Woodruff, daughter of Marshall James Woodruff, CEO of Hartford Pharmaceuticals. Her mother was Phyllis Alexandra Hartford, now Woodruff, Philadelphia blue blood and heiress to the Hartford fortune. But Marshall wasn’t CEO because he married money, and he wasn’t the hillbilly the Main Line socialites wanted to paint him as. He was a brilliant scientist and businessman in his own right, spending a great deal of his time in the rather rarefied halls and meeting rooms on either end of Pennsylvania Avenue.

But there had been some kind of a falling-out between Grace’s grandfather Logan and his only son. Not only did Logan own the entire mountain as well as the farm and herb business, but he had invested in various eco-technology companies long before it was the popular thing to do. And when the old man had died last year, the entirety of his estate had gone to Grace. It seemed Marshall hadn’t been in contact with his father or set foot near the mountain since his mother’s death twenty-five years ago. He hadn’t even attended his father’s funeral. By all accounts he seemed unconcerned with what happened to the mountain or the estate—or his daughter.

Nonetheless, anything to do with Grace or the mountain would undoubtedly splash back on Marshall Woodruff and, from there, possibly embarrass the White House as well. Thus the concern of his boss when Nick had done his profiling on what little Smoky Mountain Magic evidence they had. He couldn’t really say what made him dig into Woodruff Mountain specifically, but once he did, his gut had told him he was on the right track. And the Deputy Administrator and many others had long ago learned to trust Nick’s gut. Of course, they had little else to go on, thus Nick’s assignment to dig a little deeper, but not make a big fuss about it.

And when he had, he discovered that Dr. Grace Woodruff, a newly minted physician-scientist, was a specialist in something called pharmacognosy—producing drugs from plants and other natural sources. About the time a new kind of meth called Smoky Mountain Magic had hit the streets of Atlanta, Dr. Woodruff had abandoned a research project in the Amazon and disappeared into these mountains, not even waiting to walk across the stage to receive her double diploma. She’d shut down her grandfather’s herb business and closed up the cabin rental business as well, sending her grandfather’s loyal, long-term employees on extended vacations. It seemed obvious something was up.