Spellcrossed (26 page)

His hands tightened on his thighs. I found myself studying them: the loose flesh, the network of ropy blue veins, the tiny spots of dried blood where he’d gnawed his cuticles.

“Are you worried about performing in
Into the Woods
?”

“What if I’m awful?”

“You won’t be.”

“But what if I am?”

“In all the years you acted, were you ever awful?”

His forehead creased in a thoughtful frown. “Well, I wasn’t great in
Natalie Needs A Nightie
. But the material was so bad that—”

“You were actually in a play called
Natalie Needs a Nightie
?”

“In Scranton. Or Wilkes-Barre. Some place like that. I did a lot of dinner theatre.
There’s a Girl in My Soup
.
Right Bed, Wrong Husband
.
Run for Your Wife
.”

“I was in one called
Don’t Start Without Me
,” I confessed.

He smiled. Then his gaze slid away. “The thing is…my memory isn’t so hot anymore.”

I resisted the urge to pat his hand. I was his director now, not his daughter.

“The lines will come. It just might take awhile to get back in the groove.” When my words elicited only a dispirited nod, I added, “I’ll do whatever I can to help. Coaching. Running lines with you. But I can’t have any more disruptions during rehearsals.”

“It’s Rowan’s fault. He’s making everyone nervous.”

“Giving notes to my actors? That was Rowan’s fault?”

“I was just talking with them.”

“You were giving notes, Jack. And I won’t have it.”

“You’re just mad because of what I said about the Bough.”

“That’s not true.”

“And now you’re taking it out on me!”

“That is not true!”

He scowled and looked away. I scowled and stared out the windshield.

Had he always been like this? Was I inventing a shared past as candy-coated as the world conjured by the Chatterbox?

“I want you to play this role, Jack. But if we can’t work together…”

“We can.”

“No more disruptions.”

“Okay.”

“And no more notes.”

“Okay! Jeez…”

He slid out of the car. I slumped back in my seat and closed my eyes.

I was tired of pretending I wasn’t his daughter, worn down by his apparent lack of interest in his family, and increasingly fearful that Rowan’s assessment of his character was accurate. My mother’s had been more charitable, but equally gloomy:

“That lost boy quality…it drew a lot of people to him. Including me. I thought I could make him happy, give him what he needed, make everything right. Of course, I couldn’t. No one could.”

But I had to try.

W
ITH DADDY ON A MORE-OR-LESS EVEN KEEL, I expected Rowan to even out as well. But when I walked into the theatre the next morning, the chill raised goose bumps on my arms.

It grew colder as I made my way through the stage left wings. The green room was empty. So was the hallway outside my office. The air felt noticeably warmer there.

I felt like a kid playing Blind Man’s Buff…warmer, colder, really cold…

Which is how it felt in the Dungeon. Tension crackled like static electricity, raising the hairs atop the goose bumps.

When I heard muffled voices coming from the end of corridor, I started to run. Fae-powered anger sent a storm of adrenaline pumping through my body. I paused outside the closed door of the men’s dressing room long enough to hear Rowan claim that Alex had begged for his help and then resented him when it was offered, and Alex retort that he had never begged Rowan for anything in his life and wasn’t about to start now.

At which point I flung open the door and shouted, “Have you completely lost your minds? Stop it! Both of you!”

It wasn’t exactly helping professional behavior, but I was too infected by their anger to care. The roiling tension
subsided. The temperature rose a good ten degrees. Alex slumped onto a chair. Rowan stalked past the costume rack and leaned his hands upon a table. I studied his reflection in the mirror, but his long hair shielded his face.

Still shaking from the cold and the shock, I demanded, “What started this?”

Alex frowned. Rowan shrugged.

“I swear to God, if one of you doesn’t start talking…”

“It was my power.” Rowan straightened abruptly and turned to face me. “My control has been a bit…shaky lately.”

“No kidding.” When he glared at me, I said, “Sorry. Aftereffects.”

Rowan’s hand rose to knead the scar at his throat. He’d told me once that when he hurt someone, it throbbed. Judging from both men’s expressions, it must be throbbing like hell.

“I apologize, Alex. I said a lot of stupid things I didn’t mean.”

“That makes two of us. It’s so weird—understanding exactly what’s happening but feeling helpless to stop it. I’ve always been bad at shielding myself. When I succeed, I feel like I’m going through life swaddled in cotton. When I don’t, I act like a lunatic.”

“So are we okay here?” I asked.

After a cautious exchange of glances, Alex nodded. Rowan hesitated, then said, “Alex, you and I have known each other for decades. I’ve worked with you more closely than anyone on the staff. Our relationship has always been…cordial.”

Cordial? Jesus. My relationship with the maids at the Golden Bough was cordial.

Rowan’s head swung toward me. “I never had the kind of relationship with the staff that you have. I didn’t attend birthday parties or holiday dinners—or barbecues. A necessary precaution, I believed. To avoid…emotional entanglements. Even with Helen, I never really let down the walls.”

“You did for Maggie,” Alex said.

“More accurately, Maggie bulldozed the walls and I stood there in the rubble, blinking in shock.” Rowan’s tentative smile faded. “The point I’m trying to make is that I’ve never had a truly close friendship with anyone. I’m not even sure that I can. But I’ve watched all of you these last few weeks—laughing and talking and arguing with each other. Somehow, you manage to maintain that precarious balance between your personal lives and your professional ones. And I…envy that.”

I wondered if Alex was as shaken as I was by that unexpected confession.

“Friendship’s like any other relationship,” I said. “It takes two to tango. If you never get out on the dance floor…” I grimaced. “Okay, stupid metaphor.”

“Actually, it’s a very good one,” Alex said.

Rowan scrutinized him. “Did you resent my aloofness?”

“When I was younger, I sometimes wished I had the key to unlock the door, but I appreciated the dangers. Even without Momma’s warnings—and Helen’s example.”

“And my power?”

“It always seemed as much a burden as a gift. But there were still times I was damn envious.”

Rowan nodded, the blank mask on his face and the firm grip on his power hiding every hint of emotion.

“I always wondered what I might have done with that kind of power. If I could have been a world-class musician or composer instead of a high school teacher.”

“You
are
a world-class musician and composer,” Rowan said quietly.

Alex bowed his head. “Thank you for that.”

I was surprised to hear the tremor in his voice. And more surprised that I was party to this conversation. Maybe I was the safety net Rowan needed to crack open the door.

“But I doubt you’ll be recognized as world-class in
Dale,” Rowan continued. “If you want that…if you need that…”

“I think about it sometimes, but…no. I’m happy in my little corner of the world. And I love teaching. Maybe that’s something I inherited from you.”

“From me?” Rowan echoed.

“By blood or by example. You’re a teacher, too. You just have a different classroom.”

Rowan nodded. Then he awkwardly stuck out his hand. Just as awkwardly, Alex rose and shook it.

“For what it’s worth, Alex, I envied you, too. What you had with Annie.”

Alex smiled, but the ache of his sadness throbbed through me.

“Maybe someday, you’ll find—”

“Another Annie?” Alex shook his head.

“Another person to love.”

Alex looked startled. Then he ducked his head and mumbled, “Sounds like one of Helen’s impossible possibilities.”

“I found Maggie. What’s more impossible than that?”

Both men gazed at me, Alex with fondness and Rowan with a smoldering intensity that stole my breath. Then he abruptly strode out of the room.

Alex sank onto a dressing table. “In all the years I’ve known him, he’s opened up to me just twice. Once, when Annie died. And again, in the letter he left when he returned to Faerie.”

“It won’t be easy for him,” I warned. “The whole friendship thing.”

“You’re telling me? Still, he’s making great progress.”

Helen had said that during the early days of my rocky relationship with Rowan.

“But right now,” Alex continued, “we’ve got to address this…situation.”

“I thought he’d improve. Once Daddy settled down.”

“Jack may get under Rowan’s skin, but that’s not why
he’s strung as tight as piano wire. You two haven’t had a moment alone since he returned.”

That wasn’t entirely true. We’d had about forty-five minutes altogether, which had included a few passionate kisses and one interrupted feel.

I could focus during rehearsal. It was afterward—during a break or a hurried lunch—that I found myself watching him like an obsessed schoolgirl. The way his tongue flicked out to retrieve a blot of mayonnaise from his lip. The way his jeans hugged his ass when he walked back to the Smokehouse. Those long fingers cradling a glass of milk.

I came out of my reverie to discover Alex grinning. “And here I thought you were handling it better than he was.”

“Yeah. Right. In the middle of my meeting with Catherine about the set for
Into the Woods
, she started giggling. I couldn’t figure out why until I saw her staring at the rolled-up script I was holding and realized I was giving it a hand job.”

Alex burst out laughing. “I can’t believe Catherine didn’t tell me.”

“She was being kind. And you better be, too. Otherwise, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

“I promise. But you and Rowan have to carve out some time alone or you’ll drive everybody crazy.”

“How? Even if we could find a free hour, Daddy’s always around.”

“Then tell Daddy to take a nice, long walk around the pond.”

“He’ll know exactly what we’re doing.”

“So will your staff. If we’re in the theatre.”

I grimaced, recalling Mei-Yin’s “Get a room!” comment.

Alex’s expression became stern. “You’re going to have to accept that, Maggie. When Rowan’s power breaks free, everyone in the vicinity will feel it. I doubt even he can control it at the…um…height of passion.”

“I can’t believe I’m having this conversation.”

“Then take steps. If Rowan’s happy…”

“Yeah. I know.”

I’d had
that
conversation with Janet two years ago.

“Tomorrow night’s the cast party for
Annie
. I’ll have Momma drag Jack up to the house as soon as the show’s over. I suggest that you and Rowan arrive fashionably late.”

A
FAERY IN THE THROES OF SEXUAL anticipation is no less distracting than one in the throes of sexual frustration. It’s just a lot more enjoyable for all involved. And that Saturday afternoon, everyone was involved.

As soon as I walked into the theatre, Rowan’s desire raced through me like a brushfire. Reinhard must have anticipated my reaction because he was waiting by the stage door. He seized my arm to steady me, and the power immediately receded. But I was light-headed with longing and even Reinhard had to dab his forehead with a handkerchief.

“This is not good,” he said.

“This is not good,” I agreed.

“I will speak to…
Gott im Himmel
!”

A Category Five hurricane of lust blasted through me. Moments later, Mei-Yin strode through the wings bellowing, “LOVE is in the AIR!” She shoved Reinhard up against the wall and began devouring his mouth like a rapacious tiger.

When she finally came up for air, perspiration was dripping down Reinhard’s face and he was wearing a decidedly goofy smile. Then he caught sight of me, frowned, and extricated himself from his wife. The earth resumed
its normal rotation and Hurricane Mei-Yin was downgraded to a tropical storm.

“I will definitely speak to—”

As Reinhard broke off, I darted nervous glances around the theatre, seeking the direction of the next assault. A grim-faced Rowan marched down the stairs from his apartment. Daddy followed, looking as dazed as I felt.

“We’re going for a walk,” Rowan announced.

He strode out of the theatre, knapsack on his back, leaving Daddy to trail after him.

“I don’t get it,” I said. “It was never like this before.”

“His power is stronger now,” Reinhard said.

“And he’s not GETTING any!” Mei-Yin leered at Reinhard and waltzed across the stage, singing “Some Day My Prince Will Come.”

Reinhard mopped his forehead. “I will speak to the entire staff.”

“Why? Rowan’s gone.”

“But the energy lingers, yes? And if the rest of the staff is like Mei-Yin…”

I groaned.

“Exactly. Come. We will round them up.”

As we hurried across the stage, Reinhard stopped short and peered up at the balcony. That’s when I noticed someone creeping up the stairs to the lighting booth.

“Hal!” Reinhard called.

Hal froze, then slowly turned toward us.

“What are you doing?”

“I just wanted to talk with Lee for a sec.”

“You can talk later.”

As Hal slunk back down the stairs, Reinhard’s head jerked toward the stage right wings. “Where do you think
you
are going?”

Silence. Then: “I…forgot something,” Javier said. “At the Mill.”

Reinhard sighed. “You have twenty minutes.”

“We’ll only need ten!” Javier called. A moment later, I heard the pounding of footsteps and the slam of the stage door.

“How come they get to have fun and we don’t?” Hal shouted from the balcony.